Bite
by P.L. Wynter
Summary: There are some things that time can never forgive. John Winchester is about to find this out and it may cost him the lives of his sons. PrePilot. Rated M for language. Runner up in Sensue's SNFA.
1. Chapter 1

Bite

Chapter One

Sam was getting seriously pissed with his Dad. He loved the man, even if some days that seemed like an impossible accomplishment, but that didn't mean he couldn't be angry with him. Angry was kind of a mellow word for how Sam felt. It was more of a, I'm ready to scream and smash things and rip the heads off of teddy bears, sort of feeling. And it took every ounce of self control Sam had in him to sit quietly on the bed and fume in silence when really he wanted to chuck the remote at the man in question's head who happened to be seated at the table with his back to Sam.

Dammit, he was fifteen years old, he didn't need this crap. He was old enough to make his own decisions, to choose what was good for him. But did John Winchester let him make any decisions for himself? No. Why would he do that when he could bark out orders and control his sons like some freaking puppet master? How was he supposed to learn anything if he wasn't allowed to make a wrong decision every once in a while? Wrong decisions always lead to life lessons and Sam Winchester was ready to learn, on his own, without his Dad constantly telling him which way to turn.

What got to Sam the most was that the wrong decisions he wanted to make wouldn't seem so wrong in anyone else's eyes. Only his messed up family could find a fault in his decisions to want to stay home and work on a Civics essay instead of going off to play hunter with them. Couldn't his Dad see that there were other things out there besides hunting? What would they do if suddenly there was nothing more to hunt? What then? The Winchesters weren't exactly bred to fit into this world. So if Sam wanted to write a damned Civics essay then by God he should be allowed to write it. If only to be able to say that he knew the inner workings of America's court systems. But no, now he'd never get a chance to write it and one day when some proclaimed lawyer came up to him and asked him what the difference between the judicial and legislative branches of the government were, he wouldn't be able to answer. Thanks to John Winchester, boycotter of American public schools and education.

Sam must have sighed a little too heavily because John turned in his chair and eyed him. He didn't even try to hide the scowl on his face and John just snorted and turned back to the journal he was writing in. "Sam, the things you learn on hunts like these could one day save your life." Sam couldn't help rolling his eyes. He'd heard the speech a million times. He could almost recite it in his sleep. "One day you're going to be old enough to do this on your own and we aren't going to be there to back you up. You need to know these things."

"Dad, we go on hunts all the time," Sam spat, not bothering to keep the venom out of his voice. "Whatever we're going to do this weekend I could learn on some other weekend. I only get one chance to write this paper. If I don't take it, I'll never be given another one."

"What's more important?" John asked, his back still facing Sam. "Learning something that could be the difference between life and death or getting a gold star and a pat on the back from your teacher?"

"At least I'd get a pat on the back," Sam grumbled. When John slammed the pen down onto the table and turned, Sam straightened a little, knowing that he'd crossed over that fine line of complaining to insulting.

"Dammit, Sam!" John yelled and stood up. He walked a few steps towards the bed and for a moment Sam thought he would pounce on him. But he stopped and pointed a finger angrily at the ground. "Hunting is your life. That's the way it's going to be until the day we find the thing that killed your mother. Don't you dare forget why we're doing this."

Sam had to look away at that. He played with a string on the hem of his shirt before giving a quiet, "Yes, sir." John stood still for a moment, but Sam wasn't about to look up at him. His Dad was like the Alpha male of a wolf pack. Submissions was the only way to stay alive. Don't try to stare him down because you'll never win. And whatever you do, make sure he got what he wanted before you did.

John ran a hand through his hair and sighed before he sat back down at the table and continued writing. He didn't know what to do with his youngest. It had been so much easier with Dean. He'd been so wide eyed and accepting that he'd never once questioned what they did. Dean had blossomed beneath the burden of being a hunter. But Sam was different. With Sam, there was always a question, always a resistance. He was learning how to be a hunter, that was for sure, but he wasn't embracing it. His heart wasn't there and John didn't know how to change it. Hell, he didn't even know if he wanted to change it. Did he even have the right? Of course he did. Until Mary's killer was found, he had every right to ask Sam to hunt. So why then was it so hard?

Sulking now, Sam stared at the television and tried to get his mind off how much he just wanted to get this whole thing over with. Heck maybe they could finish in a day and be home by early Sunday morning. That would give him time. Probably not enough to make it the awesome essay he knew he could write, but it would be enough to show his teachers he knew what he was talking about. Yeah, finish this hunt quick and he could get back to the real work that needed to be done.

The door to the motel room opened and Dean sauntered in with a grin on his face. He was counting the wad of money he held in his hands. Sam could practically smell the smoke and beer that had collected itself onto Dean's clothes. He'd been hustling pool again. It was a skill Dean had embraced with open arms. Sam couldn't help but feel relieved that his older brother was back. Dean always seemed to negate whatever tension Sam felt towards his father when he was in the room. Dean looked up from the money, the smile still plastered on his face. He glanced at Sam and then threw the money down in front of John, who picked it up and starting counting it.

"Did you get enough?" John asked, not looking up at his son.

"Of course," Dean grunted, as though it was wrong of his father even to ask. Dean closed the door with a kick of the leg and took off his jacket, throwing it onto one of the unoccupied chairs. He looked at the television and frowned. "What are you watching?" he asked.

Sam shrugged and said, "A documentary on mosquitoes."

"God, what's wrong with you," Dean joked and swiped the remote from Sam's hand before he had a chance to react.

"Hey, I was watching that," Sam said, trying to grab the remote back but Dean turned it away as he flipped through the channels. "Come on," Sam tried to reach over his brother's shoulder but Dean hunched over and cocooned the remote with his body, still flipping through the channels. "Why do you have to be such a jerk?" Sam snapped and sat back down in defeat. Though he truly wasn't all that upset. The previous anger he had felt for his father was beginning to fade a bit. It was amazing how much Dean had that effect on him.

"Because," Dean said absently as he searched for something to watch. "It's my job." Finally, Dean gave a triumphant, "Yes!" and threw the remote onto the table separating the two beds. Sam started to reach for it, but Dean sot him a death glare. "Touch it and die. This is quality entertainment right here."

"Leon the Professional?" Sam groaned and looked over at Dean, who had flung himself down onto one of the beds and kicked his boots off. He looked content. Sam wouldn't allow it. "You've seen this movie like a hundred times."

"Because it's a good fucking movie," Dean proclaimed and waved his hand at Sam to get him to shut up.

Sam was about to say something more when his Dad beat him to it. "Dean, there's a hundred and twenty three dollars here. What the hell was your bet?"

"Oh, shit," Dean squawked and jumped off the bed. He ran out the door in his socks. Sam took the opportunity to grab the remote and change the channel. He quickly found the documentary he had been watching and then shoved the remote underneath the bed. He laid back down trying to look innocent as Dean ran back into the room with a case of beer in his hands. "There ya go," he said and took one of them for himself.

"How did you get that?" Sam asked before he could stop himself. Dean wasn't old enough to buy beer.

Dean looked at him with a stupid look as he unscrewed the cap on his bottle and took a long swig. "What? You think they let me into a bar to play pool if I tell them I'm nineteen?" Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out an ID. He flicked it at Sam's face and said, "And you call yourself smart." Sam looked down and read the fake ID 

"Whatever Mr. Baumgartner," Sam snickered and flicked it back at him. Dean swatted it before it could hit his face. He started to sit down when he caught sight of the television. He turned burning eyes to Sam and set his beer down with ease.

"You little…" Dean grumbled as he jumped at Sam, who immediately tried to roll out of the way, only to find himself suddenly pinned face down on the bed as Dean sat on top of him. Sam grunted as Dean effectively held him still and started ruffling around with the pillows and blankets looking for the remote. "What'd you do with it?" Dean asked in annoyance.

"Ugh," was the only response Sam could get out. Dean was heavy, damn he was heavy. "I can't breathe…" he gasped out.

Dean lightened up ever so slightly, letting Sam get some air in but still pinning him down. "Then flip me off, princess," Dean said distractedly, now looking behind him and all around the room for the remote while still sitting on his brother's back, one leg on either side of Sam's stomach. "Where the hell did you put it?" he asked, but obviously didn't expect an answer.

"Get off," Sam grunted and tried to push himself up so he could get some leverage to flip his brother. But he couldn't quite do it. Sam may have been catching up to Dean height wise, but Dean was, and always would be, the stronger of the two. He had just started to bulk up while Sam was still at those awkward stages of his teenage years when he'd grown up instead of out. Sam grunted again and squeezed out, "Fucker…"

"Aww, come on, Sammy," Dean teased and ruffled Sam's hair. "Use those scrawny arms."

At last, Dean had eased up enough on Sam that he was able to push himself up just the right amount to get some leverage beneath him. He gave a mighty push with all the strength he had in him and turned to the side, sensing victory when Dean titled with the unexpected sudden burst of movement. But just as Sam thought he had won, Dean's legs wrapped around his waist and pulled Sam with him. He let out a yelp as he was tugged onto his back, caught in Dean's grasp.

John was watching with slight amusement from the table. He'd opened one of the beers. Though he had wished Dean wouldn't have wasted the money on them, he had to admit that he'd been craving one for a while. He watched as his sons wrestled on the bed. Dean seemed to always have the upper hand, letting Sam get a move or two in, but never losing control of their quarrel. John never doubted Dean's fighting skills. Some of them John had taught himself, but he had not clue where the rest of it came from. Dean used to watch a lot of kung fu movies, and sure as hell had a lot of hands on experience with fighting to know what worked and what didn't, but his son had an innate talent that both pleased him and surprised him. Dean was a born hunter, of that he was sure.

He watched as Sam struggled to get out of the headlock his brother now had him in. Dean was looking casually around the room, trying to spot where his brother had hidden the remote. John didn't want to point out that it would have probably been easier if Dean had just gotten up and changed the channel manually. The tussling was good for them. He thought that Sam was about to call uncle when suddenly Dean started coughing. John frowned as Dean untangled himself with his brother and rolled to the side of the bed, leaning over when the coughing stopped, trying to catch his breath. Sam had rolled away so as not to be caught again if it had been a trick, but was now sitting red faced on the end of the bed, watching his brother with a look of worry etched into his brow.

"Did I hurt you?" Sam asked. The question was sincere and held no teasing at all. That was a quality in Sam that John was sure he'd gotten from his mother. Sam was sincere. Sometimes even when he didn't need to be. As much as John wanted to hate that trait in him, he couldn't. He couldn't hate something Mary had given to her sons.

"Yeah right," Dean waved it off and stood up, clearing his throat. "My throat's been bother me all night. I think it was all that smoke," Dean said, but John could see it in his face that Dean didn't think that was the answer. Smoke had never bothered him. John hoped he wasn't coming down with something. Dean didn't get sick often, but when he did, it usually hit him hard.

"Maybe you were just getting tired and it was a plot to wimp out early," Sam teased and Dean turned to stare at him with that classic big brother stare he had.

Dean sat down on his own bed and grabbed his beer again, taking another long swig. "Shut up and watch your stupid documentary, geek." Sam grinned as he leaned over his bed and pulled the remote from beneath it. When he came up, he saw Dean watching him with disgust. "You little shit," he mumbled before finishing off his beer and putting the empty bottle on the table next to him. He laid his head down on his arm and dawned a melodramatic face of boredom.

Sam just chuckled as he switched the channel back to Dean's movie. He turned and saw his brother frowning at him. "It was boring anyway," he ducked as Dean chucked a pillow at his head.

John stood up and grabbed the rest of the beer. He looked at Dean as he said, "Call it an early night tonight, huh? Especially if you're getting sick. We've got a lot to do tomorrow."

"I'm not getting sick," Dean protested, but moved on quickly, not wanting to dwell on the lie he knew he was giving. "What time are we meeting Marshall?" Dean asked, sitting up again. Their whole reason for coming out here was because John had gotten a call from a buddy of his he'd known in the Marines. Marshall McAdams had called and told John that strange things had been happening around his little town and a friend had mentioned John's name as someone who may be able to help. John hadn't even batted an eye when he'd agreed to come out. Marshall had been a damn good Marine and they'd save each other's butts countless times.

"Six thirty," John answered, opening the door so he could go to his own room.

"In the morning?" Dean asked, eyes wide.

'Yes, so go to bed." John didn't wait for an answer as he closed the door, leaving the brothers alone in their room.

"Christ, our mornings keep getting earlier and earlier," Dean complained as he stood up and started getting ready for bed. Sam did the same. Of course Dean would go to bed early, since it had been _suggested_ to do so by their Dad. Sam sighed, but had to admit that he was tired and 6:30 was just seven short hours away. But Sam liked to stew on things.

"Dean, I get up at 5:45 every morning for school," Sam said, boastful as he watched his brother turn and fake horror.

Dean stripped back the blankets on his bed and climbed in, feeling unbelievably tired all of sudden. Damn, maybe he was coming down with something. "Well I don't function before seven," he grumbled and pulled the covers up over him. Sam went to brush his teeth and when he came back, Dean was ready with a question. "So, did you and Dad have another fight?"

Sam looked shocked that Dean had even said anything. "How did you know?" he asked, sitting down on his bed and looking over at his brother.

"ESP," he joked and had to stifle a yawn. "What was it about this time?"

Sam sighed and laid down in bed, covering himself up and staring at the ceiling. "What is it always about?" Sam said, still ornery over the whole thing. "I just…" Sam sighed, knowing getting mad now wouldn't help anything. "I want to do other things than just hunt. I mean, I still want to help," he added quickly as he saw Dean's frown. "But I just think there's more to life than hunting, you know?"

"Not really," Dean said with a smile and at first Sam thought his brother was making fun of him. But when Dean's smile slowly faded, he realized that Dean wasn't kidding around, he was actually being serious. Sam made sure he listened up for whatever his brother had to say. Their serious moments were usually pretty meaningful. "I never got in to school the way you did. I was never really good at it. But I'm good at hunting, so…it's what I do." Sam looked contemplative for a moment. It wasn't often he heard Dean say stuff like that. His brother was usually boasting about his skills and talents. It was odd to hear him say he wasn't good at something. "Sam, you're a smart kid. If school is something you really want to do, you'll figure something out."

Sam smiled at his brother, accepting the compliment whole heartedly. "Thanks."

"Whatever," Dean muttered as he rolled over onto his stomach and turned away from his brother. Sam heard him clear his throat and cough again before he really settled down. Sam watched him for a moment, wondering how things would be different if none of this had ever happened, if their Mom was still alive. Would she support Sam's desire to thrive at school? There was no way to know, so Sam didn't think about it for too long. Instead, he rolled back over and looked at the ceiling again. "Sammy?" Dean called. Sam turned his head, surprised that his brother was still awake.

"Yeah?" Sam asked.

"Just don't tell Dad I said that," he mumbled, obviously seconds away from falling asleep. Sam chuckled and turned away again. Sometimes he didn't know what to think of his brother.

"I won't."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Sam woke up to the sound of his brother vomiting. The deep gasps and hoarse choking had Sam shooting out of bed, standing perfectly still in the dark, taking in the situation. It was still the middle of the night, maybe a little past two in the morning, and the room was lit only by the faint moonlight drifting in through the curtains. He held his breath and when he was certain no demon or apparition was floating around their room, waiting to pounce, he let his tensed muscles relax. He glanced over at Dean's bed, the empty sheets confirming that it was in fact his brother who was now in the bathroom getting sick.

Running a hand over tired eyes, Sam forced himself to wake up fully as he walked quietly over to the bathroom door. It was ajar and the lights were off. Sam guessed that Dean had realized just on time that he was going to be sick and had made a mad dash for the bathroom. He didn't like seeing his brother sick. Although he'd rib him about it sometimes, it still didn't seem right to Sam. His brother was one of the strongest people he knew. To see him weak and sick just felt…dirty.

Rubbing his arms, Sam leaned against the frame of the door and peered inside the darkened bathroom. He could see Dean crouched in front of the toilet, clutching each side, his head hanging over it. He had his eyes closed and was taking deep breaths in through his nose. He looked pale, even in the darkness of the room. Dean didn't seem to noticed he was there, which made Sam worry because Dean always knew when he was around.

Dean suddenly coughed deep in his chest and it quickly changed into another bout of sickness. By the time it had passed, one of Dean's arms was stretched across the toilet seat, his forehead resting there. Panting from the exertion, Dean tried to clear his throat and spit.

"Dean?" Sam called softly. His brother lifted his head a bit, reaching for the toilet paper to wipe his face off before he turned his head to Sam.

"Go back to bed, Sam," Dean commanded, but his voice lacked his normal authority. It was scratchy and deep. Sam didn't like it at all.

When Dean laid his head back down, Sam asked, "Are you okay?"

That earned him a grunt, only a hint at his brother's normal humor. "Peachy," was the smarmy response. Sam could see his brother was shaking, but not because he was cold. His body was exhausted at the task of being sick. Sam didn't move from his spot against the door as Dean rolled to the side and sat on the tiled floor, leaning himself back against the wall next to the toilet. He closed his eyes for a second, taking a breath, determining if he was done being sick. He must not have known because he didn't move from that spot.

"Want me to get Dad?" Sam offered quietly.

Dean's eyes shot open at that and he gave a strangled, "No." Dean turned his head and looked at his brother sternly, trying to give off the air of health that he was most definitely not feeling at the moment. "I'm fine, Sammy. Just a cold or something. I'll be okay in the morning." Sam wasn't buying it. He thought about ignoring Dean's claims and going to get their father, but what good would that do? John would probably give Dean an aspirin and call it a night. "Go back to bed, Sam," Dean said again, leaning his head back against the wall, fighting off another wave of nausea that was passing through him.

"Do you need anything?" Sam asked.

Dean's head lifted slightly and he looked at his brother, a slight smile crossing his face. "A million dollars and a date with Tyra Banks," he said flatly. Sam just sighed loudly and crossed his arms over his chest. He leaned forward a bit, showing Dean that he was unimpressed with the joke. Dean's smile grew and he leaned back again. "I'm good, Sam."

"Whatever," Sam answered. He walked over to the dresser and took a plastic cup from beside the ice bucket. Sam unwrapped it and walked into the bathroom, flicking on the light as he did. Dean let out a grown and closed his eyes. Sam filled the cup with water and then held it out to Dean. "Here," he said.

Dean opened one eye and glared at the cup as though it were the devil. He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead closed his eye again and gave a small shake of his head. His brow furrowed slightly and Sam could tell that Dean was going to be sick again. He sat the cup down on the side of the tub and watched his as his brother turned sharply, grasped the toilet, and wretched again, though by now it was mostly dry heaving. Sam stood there for a moment, not really knowing what he should be doing. When Dean was done and started clearing his throat and spitting again, Sam could see the glossy remains of tears around Dean's eyes. His brother wasn't crying, but the strain of being sick brought the reaction automatically. Sam made an executive decision.

"I'm getting Dad," he announced and turned to leave.

"No!" Dean protested, his head still over the toilet. "Sam, I'm fine," he called and Sam stopped to gawk at him. "Don't tell Dad."

"Dean, you're barfing up everything you've eaten in the past four years!" Sam exaggerated and stared at his brother like he'd grown an extra head. "You're sick."

Dean sighed, flushed the toilet and leaned to wipe his face again. "So I'll get some Tums in the morning," Dean spat and looked back at his brother. "It's nothing, Sam. Don't ruin Dad's weekend."

"Ruin his weekend?" Sam cried, starting to get angry with his brother. God, how could Dean be so stubborn about something like this. He was sick, nothing to get all defensive about. "I don't think Dad's going to care about his weekend more than he cares about you."

Dean looked utterly desperate when he said, "Just don't tell him." Sam stared back at his brother, waiting for some sort of compromise from him. He couldn't just not tell him. Their Dad would know something was wrong, he always knew when something was wrong. It was an infuriating ability of his, both as a hunter and a father. "Look, I'll tell him I don't feel good and I'll take it easy, but just don't tell him I got sick, okay?" When Sam only stared back at him, Dean shoved his jaw out, trying to look intimidating. "Okay?" he demanded again.

"Fine," Sam growled and trudged back into the bathroom, grabbing the cup and holding it out to Dean again, who looked at it awkwardly and then glanced back up at his brother. "But he's going to find out sooner or later."

Taking the cup with a shaky hand, Dean put it to his lips and took a sip, testing to see if it would stay down. When after a few seconds it had, he took another one. "I'd prefer later," Dean muttered after he'd sipped a few more times at the water. It seemed to help a little. "Much later, like after this hunt is over."

"How are you going to hunt if you're sick?" Sam asked, taking the cup from Dean when it looked like his shaky hand couldn't hold it anymore. Dean laid his head back down on the toilet and sighed.

"I've done it before," he whispered, voice muffled by his arm.

Sam just gaped at him. "What? When?"

"Remember that Phantasm me and Dad went after two years ago? The one in Duluth?" Dean asked, rolling his head so he could see Sam's face. Sam nodded his head, wondering if he was going to like what he was about to hear. Probably not. "Remember what happened after we came back?"

Sam thought for a moment. "Yeah, three days later you had your appendix removed…Dean!" Sam yelled, suddenly realizing what his brother was saying. "You had appendicitis that whole weekend and you didn't say anything?" When Dean merely smiled, Sam felt like reaching out and punching him but reminded himself that Dean was sick. Deserving of a punch, but still sick. "You're an idiot!" Sam yelled. "Your appendix could have burst."

Dean sat up, the smile still on his face. "Yeah, but it didn't," he gave lamely, picking himself up off the ground. He stayed hunched over for a minute, testing to see if his stomach would revolt against the movement or finally let him alone for a while. Sam watched him, a million different insults running through his head. Did his brother have a death wish? No, of course not, he was just too stupid to put himself before a hunt. "Besides, this isn't anything like that," Dean said, standing all the way up, hands on his stomach, waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, he grinned and turned to look at Sam. "The flu is nothing to worry about."

"People can die from the flu, you know," Sam said, stepping aside and letting his brother wash his face in the sink. He ran cold water and splashed it over his eyes, rubbing them before he turned off the faucet and brushed past Sam to go back to his bed. Sam followed him out, but stopped at the foot of his own bed, watching his brother crawl back under the covers with a groan of satisfaction.

"Not this people," Dean joked. Sam stood there for a moment, holding back the urge to keep yelling at his brother. Stubborn ass, he thought and finally gave up, climbing into bed. Dean lay on his side, back facing Sam, so he couldn't tell if his brother was asleep or not. He assumed he wasn't, but didn't want to keep hounding him. If Dean wanted to be hunt sick, then fine, who was he to stop him? But when Dean came crawling back to Sam for help, he only had himself to blame. Sam sighed and immediately took back the thought. He knew that if Dean ever needed his help, he wouldn't hesitate to give it to him. Even if it was something as stupid and childish as recovering from the flu. But if Dean could be stubborn, the so could he.

So Sam didn't say anything the next three times his brother got up during the night to puke.

The morning came much too quickly, and as much as Sam wanted to ignore his brother's sickness, he found that he couldn't quite keep his mind from racing. At five in the morning, Sam decided that sleep wasn't going to be an option anymore this night and got up to try and start that Civics essay he knew he had to write. He'd brought a couple of books along that could help, and he'd always be able to insert more stuff later on. But really, at this point, the essay was just an excuse to get his mind off other things.

When six rolled around, the door to their motel room opened and John came in, looking strangely fresh for a man who had finished off a pack of beer the night before. He gave Sam half a smiled but it quickly turned into a frown when he glanced at Dean still asleep on his bed. Sam couldn't help but squirm. He never had been a good liar. God, his Dad was going to see right through this. And then there would be hell to pay.

"He's not feeling well, is he?" John asked and Sam sat surprised for a moment. Great, no need to lie, John already guessed it.

"I don't think so," Sam said, hoping his father wouldn't ask if he'd been sick or not. Sam was already reciting the words in his head, willing himself to say them just right, like lines in a script, rehearsed, not a lie. But fortunately for him, because he knew he'd cave in if John just asked, his father didn't say anything further. Instead, he walked over to where Dean still slept on his side, one arm beneath his head, legs curled up with a pillow between them. The strange sleeping position was probably what gave him away. Dean was usually a sloppy sleeper, sprawled out with limbs hanging all over the place. He didn't usually curl in on himself like that.

John bent over his son and looked down at his face. When Dean didn't wake up, John confirmed that Dean wasn't feeling well. For his son not to sense someone was standing over them, either he had to be sick, or they needed to spend some more time training. John reached a hand out and placed it on Dean's shoulder. That got the response he wanted. Dean jerked, bringing a hand around to grab John's wrist in a death grip, the other arm ready to follow up with a fist, but John intercepted it and held Dean's arms for a second, looking his son straight in the face. Dean's eyes looked wild for a moment before he managed to croak out a surprised, "Dad?"

"Easy, killer," John said, though his voice was unamused. Dean groaned and pulled away from his father, running his hands over his face in an attempt to wipe away the remains of a continuously interrupted sleep. He sat up and swung his legs off the bed, but didn't rise, instead he bent over, still rubbing his eyes.

"What time is it?" he slurred and John didn't answer, just reached a hand out and put it on Dean's forehead. That got the response that Sam had expected. Dean pulled away, frowning and looked up at his Dad. "What are you doing?" he asked, now awake a little more. Sam guessed that Dean realized his cover would be blown if he didn't wake up and turn on those impressively expert lying skills of his.

"You feel hot," John commented, voice dry. Thanks for the concern, Dad, Sam thought. "Are you sick?"

Dean hesitated for only a second before he said, "I think it's just my throat." And to accentuate his point, he started coughing. Whether he meant to or not, Sam didn't know. He could only sit quietly by the table, watching the whole thing with hope that he wasn't actually witnessing a train wreck. It wasn't often that Dean and their Dad duked it out, but this was definitely something they could come to auditory blows over.

"Uh huh," John said, eyeing Dean closely. John highly doubted that his eldest son was telling him the truth, but he wasn't going to push it. He'd trust Dean to tell him if anything was seriously wrong. The truth of the matter was that John needed Dean on this hunt. Not just as backup, but also because Sam was here and it usually took two pairs of eyes to watch over his youngest. Sam had a knack for getting into trouble. And Dean had a knack for bailing him out. "I'm going to get coffee," John announced and then added, "Shit, shower and shave and we're out of here." Dean snorted at the comment and Sam just rolled his eyes. Gross.

John left the room and Dean glanced over at Sam, who was watching him closely. "See?" Dean said, getting to his feet and trudging towards the bathroom. "I'm feeling better already." Sam highly doubted that, but decided to let Dean get away with it.

Half an hour later, the Winchesters were on the road, heading towards Marshall McAdams's house. Sam didn't know much about John's Marine days, but he'd met a few of the men he'd served with before. All of them had been nice enough, and whenever John was around one of them, Sam got to see a different side of his father. He wasn't sure how to explain it. It was like his Dad somehow forget the past twenty years of his life and all the emotional baggage that came along with them. The joking, laughing, happy John Winchester was almost like a stranger. He lost that hard look in his eyes. Sure, John joked with Dean and Sam well enough, but this was different. It was like Sam was looking at the man that had been his father before Mary's death.

"So what did Marshall say was going on?" Dean asked from the front seat, where he sat slouched in a chair, head pressed against the window, looking as uncomfortable as he'd ever looked. The flu wasn't exactly the most comfortable illness to have. Sam had had it a couple times and he remembered how tired and achy he'd been. How Dean was even awake and not complaining was beyond him.

John turned the car onto a gravel road that headed into the woods. "There've been several disappearances the past four months," John said nonchalantly, keeping an eye out for Marshall's cabin. Sam could say one thing about all of John's Marine buddies; they all liked their privacy. "No one's found any bodies."

"It could just be a serial killer," Sam quipped from the backseat. His Dad glanced at him in the rearview mirror for a second. Sam could see the scowl on his face. Oh, he forgot, he wasn't allowed to have a mind of his own.

"Some people from town said they'd been hearing howling," John said crossly. "And there have been some strange symbols carved into the front doors of the people who've gone MIA."

Dean cleared his throat, but his voice still came out raspy. "You think it's a werewolf?" he asked. Sam perked up at that. He'd never gone up against a werewolf before. John had kept the hunts that Sam went on pretty easy; apparitions, poltergeists, and the occasional possession, but only because Sam's Latin was starting to get better than Dean's. Sam couldn't help but feel excited, and a little scared, that this was something new. Although werewolves scared the crap out of him, he felt he was up for the challenge. It was one thing to be told that they exist, it was another thing to actually see one for yourself.

"That's what I was thinking," John said, though there was hesitation in his voice. "But something doesn't feel right about it. We'll have to keep our possibilities open, but for right now, that's what we'll prepare to go up against."

"Great," Dean said, leaning his head back against the window, clearly not excited. "I love the furries."

John snorted and ducked his head forward as he spotted Marshall's cabin. "Maybe this time you'll remember to cock your gun," he said it in a voice where Sam couldn't tell if his father was joking or reprimanding. Dean apparently didn't take offense as he sat up and looked at his father with determination on his face.

"Hey, I did cock that gun," he said, trying to sound confident, but the weakness of his voice ruined that thought. "It jammed."

"Sure," John said as he pulled up next to the cabin and turned off the car. Sam leaned over to get a look at Marshall's house. He was impressed by it. The log cabin was huge, with a wrap around porch and a fine stone chimney connected to the side. It looked aged, but only added to the Home and Garden feel of it all.

As they were climbing out of the car, the front door opened and a tall man with a slight gut stepped out, a brilliant grin on his face. He looked taller than John and his hair was graying slightly at the edges. He had a scruff of a dark beard on his chin. John stepped around the car and held his hands out to the side, trying to hold back the smile he had on his face.

"John fucking Winchester," Marshall said, shaking his head. He jogged down the steps and came immediately over to them. Sam was surprised when John held out a hand, but Marshall pulled their father into a hug. John chuckled and returned the gesture with a pat on the back. Marshall pulled away and put his hands on John's shoulders, looking him square in the eye. "Where the hell have you been the past twenty five years? Staying out of trouble I hope."

John was quiet for a second, hesitant almost, but then he finally shrugged and said, "Trying to."

Marshall let out a cheerful, hearty laugh and clapped John on the arm. "What's life without a little trouble, huh?" John just grinned, some inside joke passing between them. "Sure as hell caused enough in our day." The two had a quick chuckle before Marshall looked towards Sam and Dean. "These belong to you?" he asked, though his tone was still joking.

John turned and held his hand out to them. "Yeah, I'll claim them. My son, Sam," he said and Sam nodded to the man, who grinned back. "And my oldest, Dean."

"Pleasure to meet you boys," Marshall said. "My son's off spending the weekend with some friends, so I'm afraid you won't meet him. But hey, what are we standing out here for? Come on inside, have a beer. I think June has some peach pie made up."

"I'll take that beer," John said as the two of them started walking towards Marshall's house. "But we should get started. Finish this as soon as possible."

"Always down to business," Marshall nodded and they disappeared inside.

"Do you think we're really going up against a werewolf?" Sam asked mutedly as they slowly followed John inside.

Dean shrugged, clearing his throat again and leaning over the railing to spit. Sam wrinkled his nose at it, but waited for his brother to answer. "I hope not," he said at last.

"Why not?" Sam asked.

"I'm allergic to dogs." Dean grinned and walked inside.

Sam didn't know whether his brother was joking or not.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"Dude, this guy's loaded," Dean said under his breath as he and Sam waiting in the living room for John and Marshall to grab their beers from the kitchen. Sam turned to his brother and saw he was leaning over a fairly extensive movie collection that stood in a rack next to a big screen television. Leave it to Dean to judge a man's wealth on the number of movies he owned. Though Sam had to admit, the big screen was another good indicator, not to mention the surround sound speakers in every corner of the room. The guy sure knew how to live in style. "Who knew ex-military made this much…"

"They don't," Marshall's voice said cheerfully, though it still cause Dean to jump slightly and turn around, a sheepish look on his face. Sam held back a snicker as he turned to see Marshall holding on to a beer in one hand and two root beers in the other. "June's a doctor. Nutritionist actually. She makes the big bucks. I just reap the benefits." He grinned widely and held out the root beers. Sam took them and handed one off to Dean, who took it but merely held it in his hands, twisting the bottleneck, not really feeling like drinking anything carbonated at the moment.

"Thanks," Sam said before looking around. "You have a nice home."

Marshall chuckled and gestured for them all to take a seat. John had already plopped down on the couch. Sam took a loveseat next to it and Dean pulled a chair out from the desk in the room and did the same. "I shouldn't take the credit," he said, sipping at his beer. "My wife did most of it. But I got to pick the toys," he said with a nod towards the entertainment system.

"Why don't you tell us what's been going on lately," John said, leaning forward, setting his beer down on the coffee table.

Marshall snorted but did the same. "Impatient as always," he chided before leaning back in the couch and sighing. "I wouldn't have called, but Clint gave me your number, said you helped him with something like this. What are you now, a detective?"

John smiled and shook his head. "Something like that," he gave softly, knowing Marshall was skirting around the issue. "Tell us what's going on."

Unable to avoid the topic anymore, Marshall's happy attitude seemed to slowly fade away as he started picking at the label on his beer. He didn't make eye contact with any of them as he started talking. "Normally I wouldn't have gotten involved. But, it's happening so close to home that I just wanted to make sure my family was safe when I wasn't around, you know?" John gave an understanding nod. "I mean, five people go disappearing within four months? Something weird's gotta be going on, right?"

"Maybe," John gave. "What about the howling, and the symbols you said were on the doors?"

"Well I haven't seen any of the symbols," Marshall said with a shrug. "But I've heard the howling a couple of times. I thought they were coyotes. I just never knew coyotes could get that…deep."

"Deep?" Dean chirped from where he was seated. Marshall glanced over at him as if he'd forgotten he was even there.

"Sure," he nodded absently. "Really low, gruff almost. Had to be a big sucker to make that kind of noise."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look while John went on. "And you heard them out here in the woods?" he asked.

"Yeah," Marshall chuckled and looked at John, the smile back in his face again. "June's been hounding me to start carrying a gun again. I don't even think I still know how to fire one," he said with a shake of his head.

"Sure you do," John added lightly. "Like riding a bike."

Marshall laughed. "Never knew how to do that, either." The man frowned before looking at John with question in his eyes. "Why are you asking about the howling?"

John shrugged, trying to look oblivious. "Just have to get a good idea of the situation. It might not be anything more than a wild animal."

"What kind of animal leaves symbols on people's doors?" Marshall asked skeptically. John wasn't going to answer. He knew what kind it was, but he also knew that if he told Marshall this, the man would either freak or kick them out of his house. He didn't want either.

John looked over at his sons. Sam was watching Marshall with intense interest in his eyes, or was that scrutiny? He couldn't tell. Either way, he was glad to see that his son was staying alert, taking in the details. Dean was slouching slightly in his chair, one arm across his stomach. He looked tired, but he too was watching Marshall, although with a bit less intensity than his younger brother. Dean must have felt John's eyes on him because he glanced over at him. The two stared each other down for a moment, trying to read what the other was thinking. In just a few seconds, John concluded that Dean was thinking along the same lines as he was. It was sounding more and more like they had a werewolf on their hands.

"Can you tell us whose gone missing?" John asked, looking back at Marshall.

The ex-Marine took a swig of his beer, finishing it off and placed it on the table. "Well, five from town. Two high schoolers, a kindergarten teacher, some guy who'd just moved in, and a retired Jar-Head like ourselves." Marshall shook his head. "I never knew the guy, but you know, you kind of feel like you do. I mean, we went through the same shit." John smiled encouragingly. "I could get you their names if you want."

"That'd help," John said as Marshall rose to go to the desk.

Dean stood to let the man get out some paper and a pen. As he was writing the names down, he turned to look up at Dean. "Peter would love that jacket of yours," he said, referring to his son. Dean looked down at himself and then back up at the man, looking suddenly self-conscious of what he was wearing. He frowned at the man, trying to figure out if there was an insult there. But he couldn't find one. "He's been getting into the whole James Dean look," Marshall continued oblivious to the questioning look he was garnering from Dean. "Likes the feel of leather, I guess." Marshall handed the paper to John with a nod and a grin.

It looked as though Dean was about to say something, but John cut him off before he could. "So there hasn't been any sign of the people who have gone missing?"

"Actually," Marshall said, crossing his arms over his chest. "They've found something since I called you last week."

"What was it?" John asked, stuffing the paper into his shirt pocket and motioning for Sam and Dean to get up, they were ready to leave.

"A foot."

In the car on the way to the morgue, Sam was wondering if he was ready for something like this. He'd thought he was. He'd thought hunting a werewolf would be something new, something that he actually would like to say that he'd done. Werewolves had always scared him when he was a kid. When they were little, Dean used to make him watch werewolf movies all the time and Sam had grown to both fear them and be fascinated by them. He found it an odd, and frightening, thought that he would actually enjoy putting a bullet into one.

But the thing about this hunt that Sam wasn't looking forward to was having to look at a crudely amputated human foot. He'd seen a lot of blood in his days, none of it pleasant. But the worse was always blood that was human, no matter if they were living, dead, or somewhere in between. But this one would be bad, he could tell. This blood was from someone Sam had never met, someone who had come to a horrible and torturous fate, someone who had their foot cut off. And possibly other extremities. He didn't know if he'd be able to handle it.

As John pulled up in front of the morgue, he turned to look at Dean, who had his arms folded across his stomach, his head leaned against the door, and a grimace on his face. John was guessing he still didn't feel well, but so far Dean had been handling it pretty well. "You going to tough this out?" he asked, his voice a bit colder than he meant. Great idea, John, he thought to himself. Make it seem like you don't care. He tried to soften his gaze, but apparently Dean didn't even register that he'd said it sourly at all. Instead, his son sat a bit straighter in his seat and turned dull eyes to look at him.

"I'm good," he said, not waiting for his father to say anything more as he pushed open the car door and climbed out. He doubted that Dean was _good_, but he knew there was really no point in arguing right now. He needed Dean's help, that's all there was to it. John sighed and turned his head to look at Sam, who was gazing at his brother with worry. He was proud of the way his sons looked out for one another. He wished there was a way he could tell them that.

"Ready?" he asked instead and Sam's gaze snapped to him. His youngest looked a little paler than normal and he could see him swallow and then nod. "Don't hurl," John said, meant as a joke but Sam just stared after him. He thought for a second about making Sam stay in the car, but quickly decided against it. Sam had to be broken into this sometime. In their line of work, having a strong stomach was part of the job description.

"Sammy won't hurl," Dean said as they climbed out of he car. Sam shot a glare at him and saw his brother was smiling gently back. At first he was touched that his brother was defending him. But then, the smile turned into a malicious grin. "He might faint, but he won't hurl."

"Shut up," Sam snapped, now more determined than ever to prove to his family that he could do this. No way was he going to give Dean something to tease him about for the rest of his life. He already had enough, he didn't need something else to hold above Sam's head.

John pulled out two fake ID's from a bag in the trunk and tossed one at Dean, who fumbled to catch it. John frowned at him. Dean didn't seem to take any notice of his poor motor skills as he flipped open the ID and grinned. "National Wildlife and Preserve," he read out loud. "Oh how fun," he said sarcastically before looking up. "What about Sam?"

"You're following us around for a high school project," John said absently as he walked towards the door. "Job shadowing."

Sam rolled his eyes as Dean turned and grinned at him. "Aww, well I'll show you the ropes, little man. Got your pen and paper ready? You'll need to take notes."

"Fuck off," Sam spat, only making Dean's grin wider. Sam sneered at his brother and as soon as Dean had turned back around, he jumped forward and stepped on the heel of Dean's shoe. Dean gave a yelp and turned around to grab Sam, but he had already dashed out of the way and was running to catch up with their father, who was pretending not to notice the exchange. Dean was forced to stay back and fix his shoe before he followed after them, death intent in his mind.

But all joking was quickly pushed aside as they entered the morgue and John stepped up to the front desk, which was currently unoccupied. Dean gave his brother a harsh punch to the arm, which Sam had to stifle a yell of pain from. He grabbed his arm and grit his teeth to keep from swearing. Dean just went to stand next to their father at the desk, pretending he didn't know what happened. When it seemed no one was going to come and help them, Dean leaned over the small wall of the front desk and rang the bell sitting there. John scowled at him but didn't say anything.

After only a brief wait, a door to their side opened and a young woman wearing a green smock and gloves came rushing out. Something was smeared on her smock and Sam didn't want to chance a guess as to what it was. He really didn't want to know. The woman looked young. She was well manicured and had light brown hair. She greeted them with a smile as she was pulling her gloves off.

"Hi," she said, coming around to them. "Can I help you?" Her eyes drifted over each of them.

"Yes," John said very sternly. He pulled out his ID and Dean did the same. "National Wildlife and Preserve. I'm John, this is my partner, Dean." The woman looked at Dean, her eyes sizing him up. "This is Sam, he's shadowing me today, pretend he isn't even there." John smiled, trying to joke with the woman, to maybe loosen her up so she wouldn't ask too many questions. She chuckled and smiled at Sam, who returned the gesture. "We're investigating the disappearances in town here. We've been informed that you may have a body for us."

The woman snorted at that. She held out a hand and John reached to shake it, then Dean did the same. "Nicolette," she gave. She looked at John again. "Why is Wildlife and Preserve looking into the disappearances?"

"Well, Nicolette," Dean said before John could get it out. He smiled warmly at her and Sam knew that his brother was turning on the charm. Leave it to Dean to try and charm the coroner. "Local law enforcement likes to look into all possibilities. We're here to rule out any animal attacks." Sam was actually impressed with Dean's ability to bullshit even when he was deep in the stages of flirting.

Nicolette smiled. "Well I'm pretty sure we can rule it out," she said, her eyes not leaving Dean's face. Sam frowned. Was she blushing? Sam couldn't believe it. Dean's charm was actually working.

"We'd still like to see the body for ourselves," John said.

She turned to look at him and nodded. "Of course." Looking at Dean she said, "Right this way." When she headed away from them, Dean turned and raised his eyebrows at his Dad. John just gave him a look that said to quit it. Dean either didn't get it, or choose to ignore it as he followed after Nicolette, falling into step with her.

"You seem awful young to be a coroner," Dean said, striking up conversation.

Nicolette turned and eyed him. "You seem awful young to be a Wildlife and Preserve officer."

Dean chuckled. "I'm a rookie," he gave, grinning. "But don't let the title fool you. I'm the brains of the operation."

"Uh huh," she said, chuckling a little as she used her shoulder to push open a set of swinging doors. "Well brains," she grinned and walked over to the body drawers lining the wall. She reached for the smaller ones, reserved for cremated remains and incomplete bodies. She opened it and pulled out a small metal box. "You look like you're going to pass out. I hope blood doesn't get to you."

Sam snickered and Dean just smiled wider. "Actually, it doesn't. I just have a bit of a cold today but decided my partner here needed me as backup, so I came in to work today out of the goodness of my heart."

Nicolette laid the box down on the table and put her hands on it, looking at Dean with amusement. "Is that so? Well, don't get your germs on me."

"I wasn't planning to unless you give into that irresistible temptation you have to kiss me," Dean purred. Sam felt like gagging. God, how could anyone fall for that? He looked at his father, who seemed equally disturbed at the lack of concentration in the room. Hormones. What can you do?

Nicoletted laughed, amused and shocked that he'd say something like that. "I don't kiss younger guys," she said at last.

"Good, neither do I."

When the two grinned at each other in obvious admiration, John cleared his throat and they suddenly seemed to remember that they weren't alone in the room. Nicolette turned to look at him, looking a bit scared at first but then pasting her smile back on. "So," she said and opened the box. "Our body is more of a…body part," she said, pulling the foot from the box and laying it down on the steel table.

Sam stared at it. God, don't puke. Please don't puke. Don't faint either. Do anything but faint or puke. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat, ignoring the look Dean shot him. Sam finally pulled his eyes away from the body part and instead concentrated on Nicolette's face as she pulled on a pair of gloves and handed one to John and Dean. When they'd pulled it on, she started showing them her coroner's report.

"DNA's not back yet to confirm identity," she said, switching into business mode. Thank God. "But, guessing from the extent of decay, I'd say it's at least a week since time of death. It's definitely female. So we've assumed that it belongs to Hannah Gordon, the latest missing person."

"What can you tell us about the amputation?" John asked, sounding surprisingly professional. Sam wondered how many times his Dad had to do this. He probably knew the lingo by now.

Nicolette moved her hand to the fleshy point of amputation. Using her slender fingers to move the skin, she held it out a bit so John could see the marks there. Sam had to look away, taking in a deep breath through his nose. He wasn't going to puke. There'd been enough of that this weekend so far. It was Dean's job to puke, not his. Glancing at his brother, he was chagrined to see that Dean was actually looking at the foot with interest in his eyes. Okay Sam, suck it up. If Dean can do it, so can you. He turned his eyes back to it and bit his bottom lip. God that was sick.

"Well, there are blade marks," Nicolette said, pointing them out on the skin. "And it wasn't done by a professional, that's for sure. The cuts are sloppy and jagged. And from the amount of reposition of the blade, I'd guess that whoever this foot belongs to was struggling while it was being cut off."

"Seriously?" Dean asked, looking up then, suddenly not so interested anymore. His face had paled slightly. Sam silently willed his brother to puke. Just puke so they could get the hell out of there. But Dean held it back.

Nicolette smiled at him. "Yes, and there's bruising around the wound, so the cuts were inflicted before death. This person was alive when they had this foot amputated. Alive and awake."

"Do you know what kind of blade was used?" John asked.

Nicolette shook her head and smiled again, looking sheepish. "A sharp one?" she tried. John smiled and Dean chuckled a little. "Really, we haven't been able to tell. The decay was so intense we couldn't take molds of the wounds. One thing I can tell you, it wasn't a serrated knife. It's cut, not chopped or sawed." She looked at each of them again before her eyes fell on John. "So, are you going to rule out an animal attack? I mean, it's obvious a knife did this. In my opinion, we're dealing with a serial killer. We just haven't found the bodies yet."

"It looks that way, doesn't it?" John asked. Nicolette chuckled and placed the foot back in the box. Sam let out a sigh of relief. Get that damn foot out of sight. "Well, thanks for the help."

"Any time," she said, though her eyes had gone to Dean, who smiled at her again. "Don't get eaten by a bear," she said jokingly.

"I'll try not to," he replied. John sighed and grabbed the sleeve of Dean's shirt, pulling him away. Sam rolled his eyes.

Once they were outside, John hurried back to the car and climbed in. His sons followed suit and soon they were on the road again. "Where are we going?" Sam asked.

"The library," John answered, to which Dean immediately groaned. John ignored him. "You up for a little research, Sammy?"

"Oh, Sam's favorite pastime," Dean mocked. Sam glared at him but then nodded his head while his Dad was looking at him in the rearview mirror.

"Good, we're going to look up everything we can find on wolf attacks in this town," John said, speeding up a little.

Sam frowned. "But I thought a knife made those cuts."

Dean turned in his seat and looked at Sam. "Werewolf claws leave marks almost identical to knives."

"So it's a werewolf?" Sam asked, hopeful again.

"We haven't ruled it out yet."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Hey all! First, let me apologize for letting my love for CSI and Criminal Justice show through so much with this chapter. But, I've started taking classes again working for my degree once more (yay!) so today I had a renewed love to Criminal Justice, lol. Also, now that I'm a student again, the updates are probably going to be a bit slower over the weekend, when my classes are. I'll still try to update every night, but I can make no guarantees. Just don't lose faith! This is like therapy for me to write these chapters so I won't give up on them. Also, a quick little self announcement that I want to share with the world: I'm an auntie! My brother and sister-in-law had their baby today! Joyus! Okay, I'm done. Thanks all for the reviews! Keep them coming, I'm addicted. 47 reviews for two chapters? You guys blow me away. Love ya all!


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Half an hour into their research, Sam heard the thunk of Dean's head hitting the table. He looked up from the newspaper records he'd been reading through and saw his brother sitting up straight, a hand to his forehead, his eyes blinking tiredly. The book in front of Dean was slowly closing itself, the page Dean had been "reading" the past ten minutes becoming lost among its comrades. Sam was sure it wasn't a big loss for his brother. He doubted Dean had even read a word in that book. Sam snorted when Dean started grumbling and flipping through the pages again, trying to look busy.

John had left them a while ago to check out the symbols drawn on the doors of the victims' houses. Sam had given up on finding any news of wolf attacks. The closest thing he had found was a dog biting a teenager four years ago. But there had been witnesses and a court case and the dog was euthanized. Definitely not a werewolf. So Sam had busied himself reading the articles about the missing persons. He wasn't really finding that many connections. There was one thing, however, that interested Sam. Three out of the five people who had gone missing were last known to be going into the woods to do some sort of outdoor activity. Sam was starting to think maybe this had something to do with those woods. He tried not to let the fact that the woods was a natural habitat for werewolves sway his interpretation of the facts.

"Finding anything interesting?" Sam called, knowing he was being a smart ass, but he couldn't resist the chance to poke fun at his brother. It wasn't often he was given the chance.

Dean shot a glare his way, but didn't say anything as he settled back down onto a page, elbow on the table, head resting on his hand. Even as Sam was watching him it looked like Dean was having trouble staying awake. He couldn't blame him. His brother probably hadn't gotten any sleep the previous night except for the few winks he got in between his last bout of sickness and the time their Dad had woken him up. And though his brother could hide it well enough when John was around, right now it was clear as day that Dean was sick. He looked almost gray and his eyes were half closed. In the past half an hour, Sam had lost count how many times Dean had taken his jacket off only to put it back on again a few minutes later. One minute his brother would sweat, the next he'd shiver. God, the flu sucked.

"I think you should tell Dad," Sam blurted when Dean looked up at him again.

His brother rolled his eyes and sat up, taking a breath and leaning back in his chair. "I thought we already talked about this," he said tiredly.

"We have," Sam agreed. "But Dean, you have the flu. You should be in a bed somewhere, sleeping."

Dean's eyes closed and Sam was surprised to see the smile that formed on his pale lips. "I wish," he groaned. When his eyes opened again, the smile faded. "After we finish this hunt, I'm going to sleep for a week." He'd meant it as a joke, his eyes prodding Sam to laugh with him, to see things his way. Sam wouldn't be swayed.

"You should sleep now," Sam said sternly.

Dean let out a harsh laugh. "And have Dad find me sleeping on the job?" He waved a hand at him. "No way. I value my life."

"That's not what I meant," Sam said, getting frustrated. Dean was such a dumb ass sometimes.

"I know," Dean said quietly, sighing again and running a hand over his face. When it came away, he looked more alert. "And I already told you no. I'm not letting you guys do this on your own."

"Why?" Sam asked incredulously. "We can handle it. I know I've never been up against a werewolf before, but Dad's gone up against plenty. The world's not going to end if you miss one hunt."

Dean held up a hand, stopping whatever else Sam had to say. He gave him a look before licking his lips and saying, "I'm done arguing with you. I'm going, that's final." Sam had to stifle a smile as he realized just how much Dean sounded like Dad right then. That's all this world needed, another John Winchester running around barking orders. Sam knew the personality trait ran in the family and he could only hope that he'd been spared from receiving the gene.

Sam sighed but went back to reading anyway. If Dean said no arguing, then Sam wasn't going to argue, especially not in a public library. He didn't want to cause a scene. Knowing Dean, who seemed to lack the ability to feel embarrassment, he would probably jump over the table and throttle his younger brother without a second thought. Sam would spare him. But just this once.

Shortly after that, John came back and sat down at the table the brothers had claimed. Both of them looked up, taking in their father's sideways smirk and partially furrowed brow. The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He opened it and threw it onto the table in the middle of his sons.

"What is that?" John asked them, though it was obvious he knew the answer. He was merely testing his boys.

Sam leaned forward and took a look at the paper. It was a pencil rubbing of the marks that had been on the doors. It was a symbol of some sort, with a few extra marks carved in here and there. Sam looked across the table at Dean, who was frowning at it. Sam decided to try and answer the question before his brother could. He looked at John.

"A Pentagram," he said. John turned and smiled at him, nodding slightly. Sam couldn't help but smile back.

"Yes," John agreed and glanced at Dean, who was still staring at the paper. When Dean's eyes came up, John elaborated. "More precisely, it's the mark of the wolf." Sam felt the excitement build up in him again.

Dean reached forward and took the paper, bringing it closer so he could get a better look at it. "You got this off the doors?" he asked, not looking up.

"Yup," John said, glancing at Sam, still smiling.

"So it is a werewolf then?" Dean asked, looking defeated. John nodded and Dean gave the paper back with a sigh. "Great. A regular dream come true." Dean's voice was flat and he put his head in his hands, looking across the table at his brother. Sam was actually surprised. Normally Dean loved hunting. He usually jumped at the chance to take down baddies, to fight off evil. He'd never seen his brother look less enthusiastic about a hunt. He wondered if it was just because he was sick and didn't want to take on a werewolf, of if it was because he just didn't like werewolves in general.

John reached out and clapped Dean on the back. Sam didn't miss the way his brother flinched, but John hadn't been watching. "There's one thing, however," John said and looked at Sam. "I've been trying to figure out why these were carved into the doors."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

John handed him the paper and Sam took it, giving the symbol a closer look. He engraved it into his mind, knowing that undoubtedly he'd see it again in the future. John went on. "Usually that's carved into bodies, or painted on walls with blood. I've never seen it carved into doors, especially if the victims are still missing. Werewolves don't give themselves away like that."

Sam looked up at his father, realizing John expected him to come up with something. Luckily, a thought had come to mind. "Well, sometimes serial killers leave calling cards," Sam suggested. "This werewolf might have an ego trip going on, and leaving these symbols could be his calling card." John looked thoughtful before he nodded, accepting the answer.

"That's a good thought," he said and Sam beamed. He felt silly for feeling so happy over such a simple compliment, but he couldn't help it. He spent so much time fighting with his Dad that whenever John actually said something to praise him, it was like getting the best gift in the world. John looked at the books piled on the table. "Did you find anything here?" he asked.

Sam glanced at Dean, who was staring worriedly at the book in front of him, hoping to find something last minute to give to his father. Sam took pity. "Actually, we did," he said, watching as Dean's head shot up to look at him. Sam smiled coyly at him, showing Dean that he owed him big time for this. "Three of the victims were last seen going into the woods. The other two disappeared without knowing where they were going. And…" Sam reached for another pile of newspapers to his right. He found the one he was looking for and threw it in front of his Dad. "I don't think the body count is only five."

"What?" John asked, taking the newspaper. He started reading through it.

"There have been at least three other disappearances from the neighboring towns. No symbols, but, one of the missing person's car was found in the parking lot of the campsite in the same woods the others went missing." Sam watched his father's brow raise and then he looked up at his son. Sam waited to either be praised or shot down. "What do you think?" he asked hesitantly.

"I think," John said, handing the newspaper back to him. "That I'm going to have you do the research more often." Sam grinned. He looked over at Dean, who winked at him. "It's a good theory," John said again, nodding. "Great theory, but we won't know for sure until we're out there."

"Well, the next full moon's not for another couple of weeks," Sam pointed out.

John nodded. "I know, but that's the other thing that's been bothering me," John pointed at the newspapers. "Did you happen to see the dates when these people went missing?" Sam shook his head. "Not all of them went missing on a full moon. So either we're dealing with an extremely powerful werewolf who can change at will or this guy is catching his victims when he's not in werewolf form."

"So," Dean spoke up and had to clear his throat when his voice caught. "What, we're going to go out there and use Sam as bait to lure him out?" Sam glared at his brother, who just grinned at him. "He looks tasty enough."

"Yeah right," Sam spat. "I'm skin and bones. You'll probably be the first one it bites into." It was Sam's turn to smile as Dean glared at him.

"Neither of you is going to be bait, or get bitten for that matter," John said firmly, making both of them turn to look at him. "It's got to have a killing ground, so we're going to find it." John stood up. "We're going camping." Sam and Dean both groaned.

A few hours and several stops to outdoor sporting goods stores later, the Winchesters were setting up their camp. Sam was glad that their Dad had actually decided to spring for a good tent and warm sleeping bags. Usually they'd just rough it, or sleep in the car. Camping with John hadn't always been the most pleasant experiences in their life, that was for sure. When they were kids, they used to go all out. But John had grown out of that, probably when they'd stopped camping for fun and started camping for hunts.

Sam finished unrolling his sleeping bag next to Dean's and climbed out of the tent. John had set up a chair next to a tree by the tent, obviously not planning on sleeping. Or if he was, he'd do it sitting up with a shotgun on his lap. Dean was loading a handgun with silver bullets.

"We should do some scouting around," John said and Sam turned to face him when he heard the shotgun cock. He tossed Sam a handgun he already had ready. Sam caught it and slipped it into his jeans, pulling his shirt over it to conceal it. "Ready?" he asked. Sam nodded. "Good, we need to do this before it gets dark." Then he turned and headed away from the campsite. Sam looked over at Dean.

"Come on, Little Red," Dean said. "Let's go catch Big Bad so we can get the hell out of here." And then Dean disappeared after his father. Sam just sighed and quickly followed after him.

For the first bit of their scouting, Sam was anxious and ready. He stayed in between his father, who was leading, and Dean, who was bringing up the rear. He kept touching the gun by his side to make sure it was still there and still accessible. He was excited. But after a bit, that excitement started to fade and he felt his tense shoulders relax slowly. Eventually, he grew bored and when Dean started humming, "Whose Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf," Sam grew frustrated. This was ridiculous. They were getting nowhere. And when after what seemed like hours upon hours of just walking around, Sam decided to voice his opinion.

"We're not finding anything," he said, watching as his father turned to look over his shoulder at him. "I don't think there's anything out here."

"We're not done looking," John stated sharply.

Sam sighed in irritation. "Don't you think we would have found something by now if there was actually something to find?" When John ignored the comment, Sam bit his lip and continued. "What are we even looking for? What do you expect to find that the police haven't?"

At that, John turned around. "The police don't know what to look for."

"Well neither do we," Sam countered.

John's face took on a look of anger. "We're looking for anything that shows us we're dealing with a werewolf."

Sam threw up his hands. "There's nothing out here!" he complained. "No claw marks, no paw prints, not even a single drop of blood. This is ridiculous. We should go back and talk to the families. Maybe we're just jumping to conclusions thinking it's out in these woods."

"It was your theory," John growled. "We're not done here, so just shut up and keep looking." When Sam didn't move, John kept staring at him. Sam was ready to retaliate when Dean came up to his side and put a hand on his shoulder, making Sam break the fierce gaze he had locked on his father.

"If the Odd Couple is done fighting," Dean said, earning him a glare from both his brother and his father, which he promptly ignored. "I'd like to point out that there is a seriously foul smell in the air and if we don't either move or find something fun to look at, I'm going to blow chunks."

John straightened at that and held his chin up a bit, sniffing the air. Sam mocked the motion without noticing and smelled what his brother had caught a whiff of. He instantly crinkled his nose as he recognized the smell. Decomposition. Fleshy decomposition for that matter. Sam glanced over at his Dad and saw John was now sniffing the air, trying to follow the scent like a hound so he could find the source. Sam looked at his brother and saw that Dean hadn't been lying about the blowing chunks part. His brother was breathing through his mouth, trying to stand perfectly still, as if moving would dislodge whatever was in his stomach and send it shooting out his mouth. Sam decided he didn't want to be in the immediate vicinity when that happened.

Taking a few steps in the direction his Dad was now headed, he sniffed the air too, noticing the smell was getting stronger. John started slowly turning to Sam and as Sam took another step, he noticed that the density of the ground beneath his feet suddenly changed. He looked down, frowning. He brushed away some of the dead pine needles and leaves with his shoe and then tapped his foot. He was surprised to hear the hollow sound of wood beneath his feet.

Sam looked up to tell his father what he'd found when there was a sudden groaning beneath him. John's head shot towards Sam and the two caught the terrified looks on each other's faces before the ground beneath Sam's feet suddenly gave way and the youngest Winchester disappeared beneath the earth with a horrified yelp.

"Sam!" John and Dean yelled at the same time, running to the spot where Sam had disappeared. Dean pushed back his urge to vomit as he fell to his knees and looked into the gaping hole that had swallowed his brother. The smell was horrible and even though he was breathing through his mouth, he could almost taste it. "Sammy?" Dean yelled again, feeling frantic when his brother didn't answer.

"Sam, answer dammit!" John yelled, his voice angry but also worried.

After a few seconds, Sam's voice drifted up. "I'm okay," he said, though he sounded strange. When he said his next sentence, Dean understood why. "I think I found the bodies. Or…what's left of them."

John took off his jacket and pulled out a flashlight, shining it down. The light caught Sam and they saw that he was covered in mud and leaves, but relatively unscathed. He looked disgusted however. "Hang on, we're coming down," John called.

"We are?" Dean asked, looking at their father.

"Yes," John answered, not in the mood. He tied his jacket to a root sticking up near the hole and then lowered himself down. Dean sighed and did the same, struggling severely to hold back the sickness rising in his throat.

Once they were both standing next to Sam, the three took a look at their accidental find. John shone his flashlight around and Sam let out a slow breath, utterly disgusted. There were random body parts laying around the muddy hole. A hand here, leg there, even a couple skulls that had been skinned. Sick. Sam looked at his Dad and saw that John's face was passive, but he was clearly just as disturbed as the rest of them.

Sam didn't even have to look at his brother to see what he thought as he heard Dean go to a corner and wretch. John flashed the light at him and frowned but then went back to looking at the body parts. Sam watched Dean for a moment, seeing him take in deep, shuttering breaths trying to recollect himself. He knew the sickness wasn't all attributed to the smell and gore. His brother had been fighting off the urge to vomit all day.

Dean suddenly stopped and got down on one knee, reaching out for something in the darkness. Sam could see the confused look on his face. "Dean?" Sam asked, going over to him. "What is it?" he asked, crouching next to his brother, seeing Dean had picked up what he supposed had been an arm at one time. He didn't know how his brother could touch the thing, let alone pick it up and examine it. His brother was crazy.

John must have felt the same way as he came over and immediately said, "Put that down."

But Dean didn't listen, instead he looked at both of them with a grin. "Hey, Sammy," he said at last and Sam frowned at him. His brother was losing it. "How many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie pop?" Dean asked. All right, his brother had lost it. Where were the men in white? Someone bring a straight jacket.

"What?" John asked.

Dean looked back at the arm and titled his head. "One, two three…" He trailed off and looked at Sam to fill in the rest. Sam just looked at him, convinced Dean was hallucinating or something. Dean's eyes went between Sam and John and then he snorted and made a biting motion with his teeth. A light suddenly clicked on inside Sam's head.

"You found a bite mark?" he choked out, leaning forward, joining his brother in the close examination of the body part.

"Sure did," he said and pointed it out. John knelt down as well to get a closer look, shining the light to where Dean was pointing. "Those aren't wolf bites," Dean said, looking at John.

Sam frowned. They sure weren't. "I've never seen bite marks like those," he said, shaking his head.

"I have," John sighed and reached to take the arm from the boys. As he pulled it back, between their heads, both flinched away from the mysterious dripping substance coming off the arm. Sam didn't want to know.

"You have?" Sam asked as John's face took on a disgusted look and he sighed again. "Where?"

"Human anatomy, 101," John looked at them seriously. "They're human."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Sorry for the wait! Like I said, I now have classes on Saturday and Monday, so the weekends will probably be a slow update time for me from now on. Plus, this chapter was a bit hard to get out, I don't know why. Please bear with me. Classes are already kicking my butt. :)


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

"You smell like death." Sam pointedly ignored his brother's comment as the trio climbed out of their car. John had decided to gather a few of the body parts and bring them back to the coroner's office to have Nicolette take a look at them. He was hoping that her trained eyes could see something that he couldn't. The human teeth marks had thrown him for a loop, thrown all of them for a loop. That had come out of nowhere. "Seriously, maybe you should shower or something." Dean rambled and Sam sighed, but still didn't grace his brother with a response.

Sam knew what he was doing. Dean was trying to make light of the situation. Not only the hunt, which had now taken an unexpected turn, but also the body pit that Sam had so pleasantly fallen into. Sam appreciated his brother's attempt at humor, but really, he didn't need it. Sure, falling into a pit and having decaying body parts break your fall wasn't something Sam would easily forget, nor even want to do again. But really, he was surprised with the fact that it didn't bother him as much as it should, other than the lingering smell that now seemed to be soaked into his clothes. Really, he didn't think it would cause any long term effects. He was pretty sure that he had already moved on, and he knew it had something to do with the fact that both his Dad and Dean had crawled into the pit with him. Now, if he'd fallen in and had been left there for several hours, that would be a different story. But this was part of the job, he supposed.

"Whose he going to impress?" John asked. Sam looked at his father, surprised that he was actually getting in on the stupid conversation. Usually their Dad just sat back and ignored whatever crude conversations Dean started up. He half smiled when he realized that their Dad must have been thinking along the same lines as Dean. He was an ex-Marine after all, he was probably well aware of how bad people could react to seeing dead bodies, let alone falling into them. Ah, the big lug did care. "That ditzy blonde coroner friend of yours? She works with dead bodies as a living, Dean."

Dean huffed. "If by ditzy blonde coroner friend you mean your future daughter-in-law, then yes." Sam couldn't help but chuckle at that. He tried not to let on that he noticed the triumphant look on both his brother and his father's face. Good, now they knew he was okay. No more babying, time to move on. "The future Mrs. Dean Winchester doesn't need a family that smells of death."

"In that case I'm going to advise her to find a new husband," John commented dryly as he pulled a box from the backseat. Sam glared at it. There was already a stain on the bottom. The box contained a few body parts. It was the enemy, Sam's arch nemesis.

"You're definitely not invited to our wedding," Dean whispered just loud enough for John to hear. John snorted and headed for the front door of the morgue, his sons in tow.

"I'd come anyway," John said and stepped aside to let Dean open the door for him. "Just to make sure my future daughter-in-law wasn't a succubus. Knowing you, you'd probably go for one of those."

"Are you saying something about my choice in women?" Dean asked in mock anger. Sam grinned as they approached the front desk. He loved the times when their Dad was in a good enough mood to joke around like this. He wished it happened more often. This was the side of John that Sam loved, the side he craved for, the side he associated with a good father. It proved to Sam that John was capable of being one.

"What choice?" John asked, looking around for Nicolette. He sighed when Dean rang the bell again zealously. "You go for anything that has a pair of legs and all their teeth." Dean snorted but the smirk on his face gave him away.

"Maybe not all their teeth, but at least half," Sam added as Nicolette rounded the corner. John was chuckling slightly and Dean could only glare in response. Sam sneered at him.

Nicolette smiled happily when she saw them, her eyes lingering on Sam for a moment, reminding Sam that he was still covered in mud and possible "human soup," which Dean had so elegantly named it. Then she turned to Dean, her smile widening. "Well, fancy meeting you again," she said. She eyed the box John held in his arms. "Did you bring me a present?"

"Something we need you to look at," John cut Dean off from saying something vulgar.

"Oh yeah?" Nicolette asked and walked around the desk. She scooted past Dean, biting her bottom lip almost seductively. Sam felt like gagging. He'd prefer the body pit over this hormone festival. But as Nicolette started to open the box, she paused, sniffing the air. "What's in here?" she asked, aiming the question at John, who merely looked back at her, wanting the coroner to see for herself. She eyed him suspiciously before opening the box and leaning over to see inside it. Her eyebrows shot up and she looked at John. "Where did you get those?" she asked, voice suddenly not so friendly.

"We found them," John gave. "We were hoping you could…"

"No," Nicolette interrupted and closed the box back up, shaking her head. "Who are you guys?" she demanded, her playful manner gone, replaced with suspicion and anger. Sam was taken aback by how professional she looked. She seemed to have aged at least ten years right in front of their eyes.

John set the box down and held his hands out to the side, trying to show they weren't dangerous. Nicolette's glare didn't let up. "We told you…"

"No," Nicolette repeated and pointed a finger at John's chest. "Any state official, from any agency, even Wildlife and Preserve, would know that they couldn't move a body, or body parts, without the coroner pronouncing it first." She looked between them all, her eyes looking betrayed when they landed on Dean, who looked just as guilty. "You don't work for Wildlife and Preserve. Who are you?" she demanded again.

"Please," John said patiently. "We just need you to take a look at these…"

"I'm calling the police," Nicolette decided finally and turned around, only to run into Dean, who had stepped right behind her. She looked surprised at first before she shoved him a bit, trying to get him to move. "Get out of my way."

"Just listen," Dean said, as gently as possible. It seemed to do the trick, because Nicolette paused, giving Dean the chance to explain. Sam guessed that she was still a little taken with him, even if he had lied to her. He never thought he'd admit Dean's flirting was a good thing. "Yeah we lied to you, but only because we knew you wouldn't help us otherwise."

"And that's supposed to make it better?" Nicolette asked and scoffed. "I could have you all thrown in jail."

"But do you really want to do that?" Dean asked, the smile coming back to his face. Nicolette just stood there, her eyes not leaving Dean's face. When she didn't say anything more, Dean decided to press on. "We're here trying to help. We want stop anyone else from getting hurt. If you help us, we'll be able to do it faster than any government department could." Sam was impressed. Damn his brother could be smooth when he wanted to.

Nicolette sighed and turned around to look at John and Sam again. John was leaning against the desk, looking relaxed, obviously letting Dean handle the situation. Sam tried to look as innocent as possible. She chewed on her lip before shaking her head. "So, what, you're like freelance crime solvers?"

"Sure," John finally pitched in with a mild smile.

Licking her lips, Nicolette rolled her eyes and reached for the box. She took it and then looked at all of them again. "Okay, I'll help," she said. "But only because I don't want anyone else to get hurt and I know how long the police take with something like this, especially in a small town like ours." She looked pointedly at John when she said her next remark. "But I'm going to have to involved the police sooner or later."

"Give us a day before you call them," John negotiated. "We can tell you where to find more of these and heck, maybe we'll be able to tell you whose doing it by then. But just give us a day's head start."

Nicolette looked reluctant. "I could lose my job," she said hesitantly.

"Do you really think they'd fire you if you helped find a murderer?" Dean asked and she turned to look at him. "They'll probably give you a raise and an extra week's vacation time. Hey then we could go to Maui." She let out a small chuckle, shaking her head again.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," she said to herself as she turned to walk into the backroom. Dean grinned triumphantly at John, who just rolled his eyes and followed after her.

Sam followed and when they got into the autopsy room, Sam decided that he'd had enough of being muddy and smelly. "Is there someplace I could clean up?" he asked. Nicolette looked up at him and smiled.

"Bathroom down the hall," she said. "I've got some extra scrubs back there too, you're free to have them. They make me look big boned."

Dean snorted and Sam heard him say, "I doubt that," as he disappeared to go and try to wash the mud and smell off of himself. At first he wasn't going to worry about his clothes, but after noticing that the mud and other substances had saturated into the fabric, he knew he'd never be able to stand it. So he changed into the scrubs, surprised that they actually fit.

When he came back out, Nicolette already had the body parts spread out on an examination table. They were three of them: the arm Dean had found the bite mark on, what looked like the remains of a hand, and a skull with the skin peeled away. The skull was Sam's least favorite. It made it too personal. Nicolette was examining the arm, with Dean standing next to her and John standing across from her. Sam came to stand next to his father, who glanced at him and smiled.

"Did you notice the bit marks on these?" Nicolette asked, distracted.

"Yeah," Dean answered. "They look human."

"Because they are," she said and turned the arm around. "Look here," she said and held the arm out in the middle so they all could get a good look. All four of them leaned in to see where she was pointing. "This looks like someone just bit into the skin. But these marks," she pointed to one up the arm a bit from the first one. "Someone bit in and pulled a chunk off." She let out a wry laugh. "They aren't defensive bite marks." She turned the arm and pointed to where it had been cut from the rest of the body. "See this? This detachment wasn't done with a blade. Someone chewed this arm off."

Dean suddenly straightened and Sam glanced up at him, seeing his brother's face had paled. "Where was that bathroom?" he asked. Sam pointed, but Nicolette turned her head to look at Dean before his brother could make his escape.

"Why? You gonna be sick?" she asked, her tone obviously teasing.

Dean looked at her and Sam didn't know how his brother could keep back the obvious sickness churning inside him. He shrugged and with a half smile said, "Well, you know I prefer my human arms sautéed with mushrooms. Raw meat doesn't sit well without a few good doses of Pepto-Bismol before hand." Even as he was speaking, the color was coming back to his face.

"So you don't like Sushi?" Nicolette asked, putting down the arm and picking up the remains of the hand next. Sam saw John watching closely, looking mildly annoyed with the high levels of flirtation in the room. Sam could sympathize.

Dean shrugged and then looked at her. "Why, do you?"

Nicolette smirked and held up the hand, eyeing it. "It's a good date meal."

"Ah," Dean said with a nod. "I could acquire a taste for it."

Nicolette grinned but then something on the hand caught her attention. Her face lit up, almost comically, like a kid who had just found the hidden prize in a cereal box. "Look at that," she said, excited. Sam looked, but he wasn't seeing anything.

"What?" John asked, leaning in closer.

She pointed to the wrist bones still attached. "See, this one was definitely sawed off. But if you look at this skin," she touched a flap of it that was still dangling there. Sam closed his eyes for a second. It was time to switch to Vegetarianism. "It's been torn, chewed."

"Like a chicken wing?" Dean asked.

"Sick," Sam couldn't keep it in any longer. His brother looked over at him and grinned. Sam sighed, knowing he'd opened himself up for a new level of teasing. Maybe he'd play the sympathy card and pretend to be disturbed about the body pit. That would get Dean off his back. Yeah right, his brother had always been able to see right through him.

"That's a gross comparison," Nicolette said but then tilted her head to the side. "But yeah. Someone cut off the hand and then ate the meat, and it looks like they got part of the finger bone on the ring finger too. Hope they didn't choke," she said with a snort. It was a bad joke. Sam could see why this girl and Dean connected so well.

Putting the hand down, she leaned against the table and looked at John. "Want my honest opinion?" she asked, her face still excited. John nodded, trying not to lash out and tell her that he'd been ready for her honest opinion this entire time. She pointed at the body parts. "You're dealing with a cannibal. Though not the conventional kind."

"What does that mean?" Dean asked, looking at her.

"Well, contrary to what people believe," she said, pulling off her gloves and throwing them away. "Modern American cannibals aren't usually this sloppy. They're sophisticated, like Hannibal. They cut and prepare their meals. They don't eat it raw and they don't eat all of it either. Normally just parts. Livers, kidneys, muscles, and even the brain. They don't cut off someone's hand and eat it just like that." She sighed and shook her head. "I'm no criminal profiler or psychologist, but I'd say you're looking for someone who isn't a very stable person. Maybe even someone with a mental illness."

"Okay," Dean said, nodding, his mouth twisted to the side in thought. "So we're looking for a guy who likes his hot wings alive and clucking."

"I'd say so," Nicolette said. She looked at John. "I'd like to look at these a bit more closely. Do you have a phone number I could call if I find anything else that could help?" John looked almost hesitant at first and Nicolette smiled warmly. "Don't worry, I'll keep you guys anonymous when I call the police. Actually, I'm kind of excited to be alone with these. If I call the county police, they'll take them away from me." Sam stared at her. He could see why she was a coroner. All of them had the same way of thinking. They all had a field day when they were left alone with dead bodies. Sam didn't understand, and he sure as hell didn't want to.

John wrote out his cell phone number and handed it to her. She nodded her thanks and then glanced at Dean. She looked almost nervous as she asked, "Is this your number too?"

Dean's eyes widened slightly at that, but then he seemed to compose himself and that cocky grin returned to his face. "Sure is."

"Well," Nicolette said as she walked them to the door. "Maybe sometime I could introduce you to the world of Sushi."

Sam grinned at his brother, thinking that Dean must be beaming to finally have all that flirting pay off. He'd never known Dean to actually get a date out of it before. Dean had dated a bit in high school, but nothing serious. He'd always told Sam that girls just wanted to get in his pants. Sam thought it was crude, but he couldn't disprove it. However, when he looked at his brother, he saw that Dean's eyes had toned down a bit. The grin was still on his face, but it was obvious to Sam that the fire was gone behind it. He frowned. Why was his brother suddenly so sullen?

"Yeah," Dean said. His eyes flashed towards John before he looked back at Nicolette. "Maybe." And Nicolette stared at him for a moment, frowning slightly before she nodded in understanding. She knew what that "maybe" meant, they all knew what it meant. Sam didn't understand why his brother was turning her down. Sure, they lived a couple hundred miles away, but that never stopped Dean from getting what he wanted.

"Okay," Nicolette said, the smile on her face forced. "Well, I'll call you, if I find anything."

"I hope you do," Dean said sincerely. Then he walked past her and headed out the door. Sam watched Nicolette turn around, just as confused as he was. She glanced at Sam, who tried to give her an encouraging smile. She smiled back before getting back to work on the body parts. Sam hurried after his Dad and Dean. Dean was already in the car, looking pensive. Sam climbed in the same time his father started up the car. But they sat for a moment and Sam wondered what he was missing.

Finally, John broke the silence. "Dean, I…"

"I know," Dean interrupted, voice distant, foreign. "If she calls, maybe I'll keep her number for when this is all over." Sam frowned. For when what was over? This hunt? They'd be done soon, why hadn't Dean just kept up the flirting? He'd struck gold, why abandon it now?

"You do that," John said and backed out of the parking lot. Sam looked between John and Dean, wondering if it would be wrong of him to ask what was going on. He decided he didn't want to be reprimanded for his naivety, so he kept his mouth closed. He'd ask Dean when it wasn't so fresh.

"So, what do you think?" Dean asked, obviously wanting to change the subject. Sam's thoughts lingered on the mysterious secret between his brother and father for a moment before knowing he'd have to let it go for now. He'd find out later. "Are we dealing with a cannibal?"

"Could be," John answered as he pulled into the motel, intent on getting Sam some of his clothes so he could change out of the scrubs he was in. Then they would head back to their campsite. "But it could be other things too."

"Like what?" Sam asked.

"Ghouls, woodland gods, possession, Wendigo…" John trailed off, knowing he'd have to try and limit his frame of thinking. There were so many possibilities. "Hell, it could even still be a werewolf."

"Wendigo?" Sam asked, having been caught up by the word. "What's that?"

"Something you better pray you never go up against."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Sam sat and watched as Dean and their Dad put together an assortment of weapons that they could possibly need. Sam helped out when he could, listening to the instructions his father gave him, knowing that some time in the future, whether John meant to or not, Sam would be tested on them. But mainly, Sam helped Dean out when it was becoming painfully apparent that his brother was getting frustrated with his fumbling, shaky hands. John hadn't noticed, his back facing Dean. But Sam could see the way Dean's patience with himself was slowly ebbing away. At one time it looked as though he would chuck the bottle of Holy Water across the campsite. Sam had saved the ingredient from its doom by taking it and helping pour some into the mix Dean had been trying to create.

"So what are we ruling out?" Dean asked when Sam finally pushed him away from the supplies and set about doing it himself. The fact that Dean didn't protest didn't go unnoticed by the younger Winchester.

"Demons, for one," John said, corking a canteen and shaking it up. He turned to look at his sons, noticing that Sam was doing the preparations, but he didn't say anything. "There was no sulfur residue." He put down the canteen and waited for Sam to finish his own before he went on. "Spirits, poltergeists, and phantasms can be ruled out too. There was no ozone."

"Unless Sammy's new favorite fragrance was masking it," Dean said and Sam sighed loudly to show his lack of appreciation for the joke. Dean coughed as an answer and Sam glanced over at him. His brother was getting sicker. Sam knew they would have to finish this soon or he'd have to tell their Dad. Dean looked as though he could hardly keep upright.

John shook his head, either oblivious to Dean's plight or choosing to ignore it. "You can always smell ozone over decay. Decay tends to…magnify it." John rose to his feet. "And we can't really rule out a cannibal, though I don't think that's what we're dealing with here." He strapped one of the prepared canteens to his side and grabbed a shotgun.

"What about the pentagrams?" Sam asked. "They have to mean something."

John nodded but let out a thoughtful breath. "They still could mean it's a werewolf. But it could also be something trying to throw us off. Or even a prank by some neighborhood punk who thinks its funny." John said the words angrily, probably from experience with such matters. He then looked at the sky. "It's getting dark," he announced and his eyes fell to Dean. "I'm going to go camp out by the pit. You two stay here."

"You don't want one of us to come with you?" Sam asked.

"No," John said sternly and tapped a gun over to Sam with his toe. "I want you two to stay here, get some sleep. Shoot if you need help." And then he turned and left. Sam watched him retreat for a moment, shocked that he was just leaving them here. Normally his father would have brought them along, a hands on lesson to what this job consisted of. He turned to Dean and saw his brother actually looked relieved. Dean's eyes were closed and he looked as though he could fall asleep just sitting there. Maybe his Dad wasn't so oblivious to Dean's health. Why else would he tell the both of them to stay back here?

"God I hate camping," Dean grumbled suddenly and practically crawled over to the tent. "I'm hitting the sack," he called out as he laid himself down on top of his sleeping bag.

Sam scoffed. "It's like seven o'clock," he said. Dean grunted a muffled, "so?" in answer. "We're supposed to just sit here until morning?"

"Yup," Dean gave and then his head poked up a bit to eye Sam. "You brought those books with you, right? Start reading geek boy." Dean settled back down, letting out a moan as he maneuvered his hands beneath him to cradle his stomach. Sam frowned at him and started to get one of his books out, absently obeying Dean's orders. "And start a fire," Dean called, his voice slurred, already half asleep. "Keep the bears away…"

Sam sighed. Despite Dean's attempted joke about bears, he knew that they really did need a fire. Fires kept more than just bears away. He quickly gathered wood and got one going before he settled down to read about the in and outs of the Supreme Court.

A few hours later, when it had grown too dark for Sam to be able to read, and he was actually starting to feel tired, Sam put the book away, made sure the fire would go out on its own, and crawled into the tent. Dean had somehow gotten half his body beneath the sleeping bag. It looked like he'd been tossing and turning for a while and he was sweating pretty heavily. Sam frowned and pulled the sleeping bag over his brother a bit more. He prayed Dean wouldn't wake up, his brother would probably break his arm if he knew he was doing this. Fortunately, Dean just groaned and rolled into the warmth before settling again. With a sigh, Sam settled into his own sleeping bag and tried to fall asleep.

Four different times that night Sam woke up to find his brother scrambling out of the tent only to hear the sounds of retching a few seconds later. He'd pretend to be asleep when Dean crawled back in, winded and shaky. His brother would lay down and give an almost whimper groan as he tried to find a comfortable position only to realize that no way he lay would ever be comfortable with the aches that accompanied the flu. The fourth time Dean crawled back into the tent, Sam had taken pity and had gotten some Tylenol out of the first aid kit. He'd been surprised when Dean had accepted them from Sam's hand without a comment and dry swallowed them quickly. It was the last time Dean got up that night. But Sam couldn't fall back asleep. He watched his brother toss and fit all night, never really getting pass the first stages of sleep before the ache and sickness would wake him back up again. Sam felt sorry. When Dean got sick, he really got sick. His brother had a strong immune system, but by chance if something slipped past his defenses, it usually nestled in good and caused quite a fuss with his brother. It had always been like that.

Morning came slow and Sam lay in the tent well pass sunrise, listening to his brother's raspy breathing and coughing mingle with the birds and the sounds of the woods outside. He laid quietly, hoping that they would be able to finish this hunt off and go home today. With any luck, John had already killed whatever was doing this, though he doubted it since they hadn't been woken by a gunshot during the night. But there was always room for hope.

A rustling outside the tent had Sam sitting up straight. His hand went for the gun that lay at his side and he held it at ready. But as a hand appeared and pulled away the flap, Sam relaxed. John's face appeared there and he looked in at his boys, his eyes resting on Dean, who hadn't woken up. "Sleep well?" he asked sarcastically.

"No," Sam whispered back. He put the gun down and looked at his father. "Did you get it?"

John sighed and waited for Sam to crawl out of the tent. "No," he said, disappointed. "It was quiet the whole night. Not even a squirrel crawled my way."

"So what now?" Sam asked, stretching his tight muscles and watching his father sit down on a log by the fire pit. His Dad looked tired, probably hadn't slept a wink if he was up keeping watch. John shook his head, obviously frustrated himself.

"We hope that Dean's coroner friend calls with more information," he said and looked up at Sam. "Or else we go door to door with the victims' families and try to find something else to work with." Sam cringed at the thought. He hated that part of the job. He never liked talking with grieving relatives. Though Dean had told him he was pretty good at it, that still didn't mean he had to like it. "How's your brother?" John asked suddenly, making Sam glance up at him, surprised the question was asked.

Sam thought about lying, but knew where that would get him. John was already scrutinizing his reaction. So he sighed and shook his head. "He's sick," he gave honestly. "And he's being stubborn about it."

John snorted at that and Sam couldn't help but smile. Their Dad always joked about Dean's stubbornness, usually when it came to admitting defeat. But in reality, John was ten times worse than Dean. John poked a stick at the fire pit, obviously not wanting to ask the next question. "How sick is he?" His voice was quiet and Sam wondered why it was so hard for him to find out Dean was so sick. Yeah, he had the flu, that didn't mean it was something to already start grieving about. A few days in bed would fix it. Or was it not even Dean's health he was worried about? Did he not want to work with just Sam on this hunt? Sam couldn't tell.

"Pretty sick," Sam gave quietly, hoping Dean wasn't listening behind the tent. He took a step away from it just in case his brother decided to leap and murder him on the spot. "He's been throwing up the past two nights," Sam finally caved and John's head snapped towards him. He saw a moment of concern flash across those dark eyes before his father frowned and looked suddenly irritated.

"Why didn't you say anything?" he snapped. Sam froze. God, why was this his fault? It was like he was a puppet caught between two masters. Why did he always get yelled at for obeying the others' orders?

"Because I asked him to," Dean's weak voice broke in and they both turned towards the tent to see Dean crawling out almost gingerly. Dean was pale and there was sweat on his forehead and dark circles beneath his eyes. Whereas Sam smelled like death the previous day, Dean looked like death today. When Dean stood up, he didn't stand the whole way, bending slightly to not stretch his cramped stomach more than he had to. "It wasn't a big deal," Dean's voice was shaky and Sam frowned when his brother's eyelids blinked heavily. Dean looked like shit.

John growled and rose to his feet, standing with his hands on his hips facing Dean. He looked pissed. "Not a big deal?" John croaked with a dry laugh. "Dammit, Dean," he said and chewed on his lip to keep from screaming at his eldest. Dean just stood there, watching his father, expecting the reprimand. "You're putting our lives at risk here." Dean frowned and Sam mirrored the expression. Was that really called for? When Dean didn't say anything, John suddenly reached down and picked up a pinecone which he threw at Dean. Sam watched his brother's slow reaction as the pinecone hit his partially turned chest. Dean just glared at his father questioningly, looking violated. "We trust you to have our backs," John said. "How are you supposed to do that if your reflexes are shot?"

"It wasn't this bad," Dean choked, bending a bit more at the waist. Sam frowned again and tensed slightly. Dean looked like he was about to cry. Whether it was from his father's words or just the utterly crappy feeling he had to have in his whole body, Sam didn't know. John must have noticed it too because his face softened and he turned his head away, trying to get his anger in check.

"Look, Dean," John said, sighing and taking a step towards his son. "You're going to sit this one out. Get some rest and get yourself better." The concern was there and Sam would have been happy to finally hear it in John's voice, but he was too busy watching Dean's pale face to notice. His brother was blinking heavily again. He stepped towards Dean and not a moment too late as suddenly Dean pitched forward.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, grabbing onto his brother. John leapt in next to Sam and they eased Dean to a sitting position on the ground where they watching him blink and shake his head, trying to get rid of the dizziness. Sam could feel the heat radiating off his brother. He was about to put a hand to Dean's forehead, but John beat him to it.

"Jesus," John whispered when he felt how flushed with fever his son was. He gently grabbed hold of Dean's chin. "Dean," he said sternly. Dean's eyes drifted up to John's face and his father looked at him gravely. "Is this really the flu, or is it something more?" he asked, knowing perfectly well how Dean downplayed his illnesses. But he gave him a look that said no kidding around this time.

Dean sighed tiredly and surprisingly leaned into his father a bit more. Sam kept his hands on Dean's arm and back, worried now. "It's the flu," he rasped and coughed to prove it. "I'm okay," he said when he noticed the worried looks he was getting from both his father and younger brother. Sam snorted and John just smiled and ran his hand over Dean's head affectionately.

"Sure you are, bud," he said and sighed heavily, looking around as if he could find something to help cure his son. "Well, we're going to get you into a bed," John said, slipping an arm around Dean's waist and lifting him up.

Dean chuckled groggily and said jokingly, "Do I need to yell for an adult?" John snorted and shook his head at his son's idiotic humor.

Sam tried to help lift his brother too, but Dean was trying to shove him off so he compromised with just keeping his hands on Dean's arm. John suddenly paused and studied Dean's face, which was pale, but also flushed with fever. Then John looked at Sam, studying him too. Sam tried to look helpful, but didn't really know what his father wanted. Finally, John said, "I don't want to leave him by himself," he admitted.

"I could stay with him," Sam suggested and was surprised when both John and his brother shook their heads. John shook Dean slightly to get him to stop. Dean smiled.

"No, I need you with me so we can cover ground more quickly and get this over with." Sam was actually surprised to hear him say that. It was almost endearing to know his father trusted him like that to help so much. "We're going to have to take him to Marshall's."

"Do you think he'd mind?" Sam asked, helping John half walk half drag Dean in the direction of the parking lot.

"As many times as I've saved his ass, he better not mind," John joked. Sam nodded and helped guide Dean the rest of the way to the car. "And he said his wife was a doctor," John added as they climbed in after laying Dean down in the backseat with a blanket as a pillow. Dean mumbled something before settling in and immediately falling asleep.

"Nutritionist," Sam corrected, keeping his eyes on his brother. 

"Still a doctor," John said and started the car up.

Fifteen minutes later they pulled into Marshall's driveway. Sam ran to go ring the doorbell while his Dad helped Dean get out of the car. After the second ring, he was awarded when the door opened and Marshall greeted him with a warm smile. "Hello, Sam," he said, stepping out. "Where's…" he trailed off when he saw John helping Dean towards the house. His face sobered. "What happened?" he asked, genuinely concerned.

John was quick to assure him everything was all right. "He's come down with the flu, actually," he said, smiling when Marshall came and took Dean's other arm. Together they lead him into the house. Sam trailed behind, happy that Marshall seemed to be so concerned with his brother's health. He supposed he shouldn't have expected anything else. Marshall had a son of his own, he was probably used to treating the flu. They sat Dean down on the couch, where Dean groaned and slouched slightly with a sigh. He didn't look happy. John turned to Marshall. "We were hoping he could stay here for a while, until we're done with everything."

"Of course," Marshall said, heading into the kitchen and coming out a minute later with a heated cup of tea. He handed it to Dean, who looked at it skeptically before smelling the lemon scent and taking a small sip. Sam grinned and stood next to his brother protectively, trying not to hover. Dean was such a five year old when he was sick, it was amusing to watch. "I can set up Peter's room for him. And June could probably make him something that won't wreak havoc on his stomach." Dean looked disgusted at the mere thought of food, but Sam hoped they'd be able to get him to eat something. He couldn't remember the last time Dean ate something without throwing it up right afterwards.

"Thanks, Marshall," John said, looking relieved that he could leave his son in someone's care and not laying in a motel room alone. "Hopefully we won't be that long," he said, looking towards the door, readying to get going so they could finish this whole thing and get Dean home.

"Don't mention it," Marshall said with a smile. "How's it going by the way? Find anything interesting?" he asked, looking between John and Sam.

"We're close," John lied. "Tell June she won't have to worry about it much anymore."

Marshall nodded and gave a laugh. "She'll be glad to hear that." He looked at Dean who had set down the cup and now had his head laid back, eyes closed. "You know, when you're done, she'd love to meet you. She makes a mean vegetarian chili."

John chuckled and shook his head with a grin that told Sam they were talking about the Marine days again. "You know how I love my vegetarian chili." Marshall gave a hearty laugh and John nodded, motioning Sam that it was time to go. "I'll take you up on that offer. I'd love to meet her. Uh," he looked at Dean who either didn't care that they were leaving or just wasn't aware. "I'll call to check up on him every so often."

"Ah don't worry about it," Marshall said with a wave as he walked John to the door. "He'll probably sleep the whole time anyway."

Sam leaned towards his brother and patted his shoulder. "Enjoy the pampering. Marshall looks like a good nursemaid," he teased.

Dean opened one eye and glared at Sam. "Don't think I forgot that you're a traitor," he grumbled.

Sam shook his head. "Dad would have found out anyway," he defended himself. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a duty as the healthy son to assist our father."

"Jerk," Dean bitched and Sam laughed, patting his brother's shoulder one more time before he followed John out to the car.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Sam sat quietly in the passenger seat as John drove into town. They'd decided to start questioning the victims' families to see if there was something they were missing. Sam was beginning to suspect that there was. John was usually really good at figuring out what they were dealing with early on. For him to still not know what they were up against was pretty unusual. Sam knew his father was getting frustrated. This hunt wasn't going the way he thought it would. They were supposed to be heading home today, but they still didn't know what they were fighting, Dean was sick, and John had no other plan than to just camp out by the body pit and wait for some monster to come along and drop off a new victim. It was a shitty plan, they both knew that, especially if the police were going to be getting involved soon. But what else could they do? Talk to the families, find out how upset they were and try to lie to their faces and tell them there was still a possibility their loved ones were alive? That wasn't something Sam was looking forward to doing.

And Sam didn't want to bring it up, but there was still the matter of school and that Civics essay he was supposed to be writing. At this rate, he wouldn't even be able to make it to class unless they destroyed whatever was killing people and drove all through the night to get back home. He was almost tempted to ask his father if they could go home and try again next weekend. But he knew better than that. John would never go for something like that. Hell, Sam wouldn't even go for something like that. If someone died because he wanted to write a stupid Civics essay, he'd feel terrible. They would stay here until this was done, even if it took a month to do it.

They had just pulled into town when John's cell phone went off. He pulled it out and answered with a quick, "John." Sam could hear the voice on the other end loud and clear. Nicolette sounded excited.

"Hello, John," her voice chirped. "It's Nicolette. I've been looking at those body parts you brought me and I've found something interesting that I think you should see."

"We just got back into town," John told her, leaning forward to make sure he was on the right street. "We'll be there in a few minutes."

"Great, I'll be waiting," she answered and John hung up. He stowed the cell phone and made a turn. Sam waited for his Dad to relay the message, even though he'd heard the conversation, but John didn't say a word to him. The silence in the car was awkward. Without Dean there as a middle man, Sam realized he didn't really know what to say to his father. When they were at home, Sam could talk to him about normal stuff, like school and television and movies. His Dad wasn't always receptive of those topics, but they at least talked about them. But on hunts, when John went into hunter mode, it was like he was a captain instead of a father. Growing up, it had been different. John used to laugh and joke and chat with his boys like any normal father. But when Dean started joining his father on hunts, John had changed. Sam wasn't positive, but years of speculation over the man had convinced Sam that the change had something to do with John knowing that on hunts, his boys' lives were at risk. He couldn't be the loving, comforting, coddling father they'd grown up with. He was no longer an equal. That could get them killed. He was now a leader and leaders had to show discipline and detachment for their followers to obey orders without question. Sam figured that John had worked so hard on making himself a leader of their little team that now he didn't know how to turn it off and go back to being the father they'd grown up with.

Dean didn't seem to notice the change, or if he did he didn't seem to mind. Sam would watch his brother follow orders and strive to prove himself under his father's scrutiny, as a hunter. And about the same time John started losing his grasp on fatherhood, Dean started to blur the lines between being a son and being a soldier. When Dean had a problem with a hunt, he didn't hesitate to ask his father. But when Dean had a problem with normal things, like girls or school or even life in general, he'd always kept it to himself, or had tried to weasel it into a conversation with Sam. Yeah his brother still enjoyed normal things, but only with Sam. Never with their father. Sometimes it seemed like Dean was ashamed to find watching a movie fun or to enjoy playing baseball or hockey with Sam and his friends. The only things Dean had no problem confessing his attachment to was music and cars, two things which seemed to be the only thing John would ever admit to getting enjoyment from. Sam didn't know how it had gotten like this without them realizing it, but sometimes he wished John could just remember that he was a father sometimes, not just a leader.

But, even though Sam had his qualms with the man, he still loved his father dearly. No question. Yeah, they fought and bickered and disagreed on almost everything there was to disagree about, but that didn't change the fact that they were a family. They were all the family any of them had left. And that fact alone was enough to make Sam love his father and brother unconditionally. There were times when he thought it was a one sided love with his father, but there were also times when that glimmer of John's affection shone through. Sam wished more than anything that they could just be a normal family sometimes. Do normal family things. The only thing they really did as a family was hunt.

John pulled the car up alongside the road and parked it. Sam got out and waited for his father before they crossed the street and entered the building in silence. As soon as the door closed behind them, Nicolette's head poked out from behind the swinging doors and she smiled at them, waving them back.

Going into the backroom, Sam noticed that she'd done a lot of work on the body parts. The skull looked as though it had been boiled, free of the flesh that had been rotting on it, and now covered with some molding of some sort, like she'd been trying to make a face on it to try and identify who it was. It actually looked pretty scary like that, with a blank face. Sam shivered. The hand was spread on another table, cut at every joint, the bones measured and marked. The arm was the part Nicolette wanted to show them.

"You're going to love this," Nicolette said, her face bright. "Don't freak out," she said, looking between them. Her eyes suddenly dulled. "Where's Dean?" she asked. Sam tried to think of a good excuse for where his brother was, but his father answered the question honestly.

"He's at a buddy of mine's house," John said, eyeing the arm but not finding anything that could warrant Nicolette's excitement. "He needed to take it easy for a while." John pointed at the arm, trying to get her back on track. "What have you got for us?"

Nicolette looked worried for a second before she gathered herself and walked over to the arm. "I've had a pretty exciting day," she announced and pulled on a pair of gloves. "I was up all night playing with these." Sam had to suppress a chuckle at Nicolette's choice of words. "And this morning I had a bit of a scare."

"A scare?" John asked. Sam heard the question in his father's voice. He felt the same question inside of him. Nicolette seemed like a pretty tough girl, he wondered what could scare her.

Picking up a scalpel, Nicolette pressed it to the arm and looked up at them. "I started to do an autopsy on my friend here. But when I cut into it, watch this," she said and pressed the scalpel down. Sam watched as a dark substance started to leak out. He had to hold back a gag at the sight. It looked almost like blood, but it was way too dark, almost black. He looked at Nicolette and saw she was smiling at them. "Don't worry," she said, mistaking their confused looks for nervousness. "This is a common occurrence with bio-toxins, like anthrax. So you can guess how freaked I was. But I ran all the tests and it's nothing harmful. So we're not going to suddenly keel over or anything."

"Well that's good to know," Sam said before he could stop himself. Nicolette grinned at him and Sam couldn't help but think how much that smile looked like Dean's. He guessed if they knew each other better, she'd be making fun of him about now. Good thing he'd just met her.

"So I've been running tests all day on this stuff," she said, bringing the scalpel up and Sam let out a sickened groan as the black substance clung to the metal as she pulled it away. "And I can tell you that I've never seen anything like it before. It's completely natural and completely human. It's almost like, rotten blood."

"Rotten blood?" Sam asked, eyeing her. "That's blood?" he pointed at the substance she was now scraping into a collection dish.

Nicolette shook her head. "Not quite. It's got DNA and blood cells, but…" she gave a wry chuckle and continued. "It's like it's fragmented. The cells aren't whole, there's no membrane holding them together and they're not living, but they're not dying either. They're just…there."

John cleared his throat and Sam looked at him. His father had a passive look on his face. Sam recognized it instantly. He'd figured out what they were dealing with. "Did you run a toxicology screen on these?" he asked. Nicolette looked up at him and nodded. "Could I see it?"

"There's nothing there," she said. "They were all clean."

"I'd still like to see them," John said patiently. Nicolette tilted her head but then nodded.

"Sure," she said, pulling her gloves off. "I have to go print out another copy. I've already filed the other one."

"Thanks," John nodded as she left the room. As soon as she was out, he turned to Sam. "I've seen that before," he said, pointing at the black substance oozing on the arm.

"You know what we're dealing with?" Sam asked, feeling relieved and a bit anxious.

"Yeah," John nodded. "Two years ago I went to St. Claire Shores when a man who had died and been buried for a week suddenly came back to life. It turned out his wife was using necromancy to bring him back. But, before I could kill his ass, again, he bit this teenager who was trying to help me bring him down. We didn't think anything of it, but the next day the kid died and this stuff was everywhere inside of him."

"So we're dealing with a necromancer?" Sam asked. Sweet, he'd never actually seen anything like that before.

"Yeah," John acknowledged, looking to see if Nicolette was coming back. When he was sure she was still busy he added, "And the thing that's been eating people is a reanimated corpse."

"Like a zombie?" Sam whispered.

"To put it loosely," John answered. "But not like the kind in movies. When they bite you, you don't become a zombie, you just die and stay dead."

"Well that sounds pleasant," Sam muttered and looked back at the arm, disgusted. "How do you stop it if you get bit?"

John patted the canteen at his side. "The same way you treat a demon bite. Holy water. But I've mixed in some rosewood and salt. My own special concoction. Works like a charm." Sam eyed his Dad with a half smile.

"You've tested it?" he asked, unable to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

John turned to look at him, amusement in his eyes. "Not on purpose," he answered. "Fucker bit me before I managed to kill it. Good thing I'm a cautious bastard. Poured some on just to be safe, ended up saving my life." Sam stared at his Dad, wondering how the hell any of them were still alive when things like being bitten by a reanimated corpse was a simple trial and error life lesson. John reached out and clapped Sam's shoulder. "Otherwise Dean would be your legal guardian and by now he'd have you waiting on him hand and foot no doubt." Sam snorted.

"So how do we stop it?" Sam asked.

"Shooting it in the head seemed to work last time," John said dryly. "But we also have to stop whoever reanimated them in the first place. I've got a few necromancy counter enchantments that should do the trick."

Sam shook his head and looked back at the arm. "I can't believe we're going up against a zombie," he whispered. But whatever his father had to say next was cut off when Nicolette came back into the room. She walked over to them and handed John the tox screen. John pretended to look over it, though he honestly didn't know what he was looking at.

While John was trying to figure out what exactly was on the paper, Nicolette looked at Sam. "So, Dean's your brother, right?" she asked quietly. Sam rose his eyebrows. Had they told her that?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "How'd you know?"

She shrugged. "I could tell by the way you two act around each other. I've got a little brother about your age too. It's easy to spot siblings when you've got one of your own." She smiled and Sam nodded. That was something to keep in mind for when their covered required them to be unrelated. "Can I ask you something?" she asked timidly.

"Sure," Sam said, uncertain.

Nicolette looked nervous and a bit confused as she bit her lip and tilted her head to the side. "Did I come on too strong?" Sam just stared at her. That was the last thing he expected her to ask. He must have been quiet too long because she went on. "Because, you know, it's been a while since anyone's really acted that way with me. All nice and everything. I guess, I just…I thought that, we hit it off, you know?"

Sam saw his father glance up from the paper and then turn around, letting Sam handle this one. He was sure his father was testing him to see what he'd do in a situation like this. But really, Sam didn't know what to say. He opened his mouth, hoping words would just come out. When they didn't, he sighed and shrugged. "My brother, well I think he really likes you," Sam said and ignored his father when John put the paper down and turned his full attention to the conversation. "It's just, he's not really good with relationships."

"I just felt kind of stupid," Nicolette admitted. "I thought he was giving off all the signs that he was interested."

"I think he was," Sam answered truthfully. Why did he always get himself into things like this? Dean so owed him for this. "I don't think he expected you to return it so much." He smiled when she chuckled. "I think it threw him a bit."

"So," Nicolette said, biting her lip again with renewed hope. "He's sort of a I can love but can't be loved type of guy, huh?"

Sam stared at her for a moment. He couldn't deny the statement. It was absolutely true, in more ways than one. Dean could show affection well enough, to a point, but the minute anyone tried to return it, he'd clam up. It was absolutely true of his brother. Damn, this girl had only talked to his brother twice and already she knew him so well. She'd gained Sam's approval. "Actually, yeah," he nodded and smiled. He glanced at his father and was happy to see that John wasn't looking at him disapprovingly. He actually looked a bit amused at the conversation. He was probably more amused at Sam's uncertainty over the whole thing more than anything else.

"So," Nicolette started and rung her hands together. "He didn't not come today because of me, did he?" she asked quietly, almost embarrassed by the question.

"Oh, no!" Sam was quick to say. "He really is sick."

Nicolette nodded, looking relieved. "Good," she said but then shook her head. "Well, I mean, not good, but…good that he didn't not come because of me," she rambled and then let out a small laugh at herself. "You know, I could bring by some soup or something…for him, if he wants it."

John cleared his throat and they both looked at him. Sam was relieved that his father finally decided to jump in. He wasn't sure what to do now. Nicolette seemed pretty set on believing Dean and her had a thing going. Maybe they did, but Sam didn't want to get caught in the middle of it. "There probably won't be time," John said, trying not to sound cold. Nicolette just nodded. "We're going to be heading out soon."

"Oh," Nicolette said. "Well, it makes sense now. No use getting hopes up when he's just going to leave anyway, huh?" she tried to say it cheerfully, but it came out sadder than she probably wanted.

Sam gave his Dad a look, who rolled his eyes. The girl deserved something better than that lame excuse. "He's grumpy when he gets sick, anyway," he said jokingly. He was rewarded with a laugh. "You'd be better off waiting for a day when he's not hacking his lungs out. He's probably driving Marshall crazy."

"Speaking of," John interrupted. "We should probably get going…"

"Marshall?" Nicolette asked. "Marshall McAdams?"

John eyed her before nodding. "Yeah, we served together," he gave simply.

Nicolette smiled. "He's a nice guy," she said. "Pretty quiet, but nice. I've met him a couple of times." John and Sam headed for the door, Nicolette came around to walk them out. "It's too bad what happened."

Both John and Sam paused suddenly and turned around to look at her. She stopped short when she saw the looks on their faces. "What happened?" John asked, his voice suddenly grave. Sam could relate to the feeling. Marshall hadn't mentioned anything happening. He'd been the epitome of happiness and contentment.

Nicolette looked between them. "What? He didn't mention anything?" she asked, confused.

"No," John said and took a step towards her.

"He didn't say anything about his family?" Nicolette asked, the look on her face making Sam's toes tingle. He was getting a bad feeling.

"Well, he talked about his wife making dinner," Sam said, watching as Nicolette's brow furrowed at that. "And his son was at a friends house," he ventured and watched with a new tingling of fear as she frowned deeper.

Nicolette shook her head and gave a dry laugh as she looked between John and Sam like they were joking. When neither of them smiled and jumped up to yell surprise, she said, "That's impossible."

The world seemed to freeze. Sam couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. Please, please don't say it. Don't say it.

"June and Peter have been dead for over a year."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Dean hated being sick. He hated the ache, the exhaustion, the nausea. He hated having to fight with himself to keep food down. He hated swallowing pills and taking shots of cough syrup. But most of all, he hated the way people treated him. He was sick, with the flu. He didn't have cancer and he sure as hell wasn't dying. But, with the way everyone was acting, you'd think he was on his deathbed counting away the minutes. It was bad enough when it was his father or Sam fussing over him, but it was worse when it was a man he'd just met. He could yell and bitch and complain to his Dad or Sam. But he couldn't do those things with Marshall. All he could do was pretend to be polite and try to smile for the man when really he felt like screaming at the man to stop his excessive hovering.

As soon as his Dad and Sam had left, Marshall had come back inside and had brought Dean some more tea and some cough syrup. He'd accepted them both with a forced "thank you" and had then watched as the man scurried around dimming the lights so they wouldn't make his headache worse or turning up the heat so it was at a nice even degree that wasn't too warm and wasn't too cold. Sam had been right to call him a nursemaid. The man thought of everything.

Finally, Marshall seemed to have everything right and he came out to stand in front of Dean. "How are we doing?" he asked, bending down to get a closer look at Dean's face.

Dean's immediate answer would have been something along the lines of fan-fucking-tastic. But he knew he had to censor himself around new acquaintances. "I'm fine, really," he said politely. "I appreciate everything. I'm starting to feel better." He put on what he hoped was a convincing smile. Marshall smiled back so he assumed it had worked. He knew this guy was his Dad's Marine buddy and everything, but he didn't really like him and he couldn't pinpoint why. There was just…too much smiling. The guy was too perky for an ex-Marine. He should be off ranting about hoodlums or something, not impersonating Mary freaking Poppins.

"I bet you're tired," Marshall said. Yeah, as a matter of fact he was getting pretty tired. "I'll go get Peter's bed ready so you can take a nap."

Dean held out his hands, trying to stop the man from running off. "Really, Mr. McAdams…"

"Marshall, please," the man corrected and Dean nodded.

"Well, Marshall," he said and put down his tea, standing up. "I don't want to be a burden…"

"Bah," Marshall broke in with a laugh. "It won't take more than a few minutes. You just wait here and I'll have it ready in a jiffy."

Dean watched the man retreat up the stairs before he sighed and shook his head. The guy was too nice and it was starting to creep Dean the fuck out. He'd never trusted people who were nice all the time. They reminded him too much of Mr. Rogers, and Dean had his issues with that television personality. Sure, he seemed like a nice old guy at first, but Dean could only imagine what went on in that cookie cutter house of his when the doors closed. Creepy old guys inviting children into their homes? Yeah right, no thank you. Never trust the guys with the friendly smile.

Sighing again, Dean scolded himself for thinking like that. Marshall was Dad's friend. And if he was a friend of Dad's, then he was a friend of Dean's, he guessed. Besides, the dude had been the one to call them down here, so he must really care about his family and his town to seek out help like this. He should cut Marshall some slack. The guy was just trying to help.

Taking a breath, Dean grabbed the cup of tea Marshall had given him, but his still shaky hands betrayed him and he spilt a bit onto the coffee table. "Dammit," he whispered and looked up, half expecting Marshall or his wife to come in and start screaming at him. But there was no one around. He sighed. God, he was so tired. That bed was sounding nicer and nicer. He bent down and tried to wipe away the spill with the sleeve of his shirt, but it only spread it around. He growled in frustration and looked towards the kitchen. Might as well find a towel to clean it up with.

Walking towards the kitchen, he paused in the doorway and tried to guess where Marshall kept the dishrags. In the process, he couldn't help but notice what a nice, extensive kitchen the man had. Well, what did you expect, Dean? His wife was a goddamn nutritionist. But still, this kitchen was like the mother of all kitchens. A magnetic strip line an entire wall and was home to an assortment of knives and utensils. There were appliances everywhere, some of which looked to be more worn than others. There was a silver fridge along the far wall, surrounded by cupboards. On the right side of the kitchen were two freezers and a line of hooks ran above them. Dean frowned at that. Why did the man need so many freezers?

Dean didn't have time to ponder when his eyes landed on a dishtowel lying on the counter next to the fridge. He walked over, setting his cup in the sink as he picked up the towel. As he turned to head back into the living room, something else caught his eye. There was an open doorway that lead to a sort of sunroom in the back. The room was in disarray, quite a contrast to the rest of Marshall's home. There was a large wooden table in the center of the room. There were hooks and rope hanging from the ceiling. But what had caught Dean's attention were the dark stains soaked into the wooden table and the cement floor. It looked almost like blood.

Ringing the dishtowel in his hands, Dean glanced at the stairs to see if Marshall was coming back down. When he didn't spot the man, he walked into the sunroom. He could see the room in more detail and was surprised to find two deer carcasses hanging from the ceiling which had been out of his view as he stood in the kitchen. They both had been gutted, recently by the looks of things. He gave a sigh of relief. The room made more sense now. Marshall was a hunter. This must have been the room he did all his gutting and skinning in. That would explain the dark stains and the assortment of knives laid out on a table in the corner, not to mention the bone saw and the cleaver. It would also explain the two freezers in the kitchen. Room to store the meat.

Dean gave out a wry chuckle. He hadn't pinned Marshall to be a hunter. The man seemed too happy and mothering, he couldn't quite see him killing and skinning a deer. But then again, he couldn't really picture him as a Marine either, so what did Dean know? He ran a hand over a length of rope laying on the wooden table and gave a smile. He wondered how June felt about all the dead carcasses in her house. The smell was raw now that Dean was in the room and he could only imagine how it was during the day, when the sun came into the room. It had to smell foul. He was surprised he hadn't noticed it before out in the living room. He gave June credit. To let her husband do all this inside the house, the woman had to be a tough broad.

Turning, ready to get back to that spilt tea in the living room, Dean suddenly stopped, his eyes having fallen on something odd on the floor. He blinked a few times to make sure he wasn't seeing things. When the foreign object didn't fade away or move, Dean stepped towards it and squatted down, realizing just how sore and achy his body still was, but trying to ignore it anyway. He frowned heavily as he reached out and picked it up. It looked like part of an animal, but not a deer or elf or anything. He held it up so he could get a good look at it. It looked fairly old and rotted. It looked almost like a finger. And suddenly, Nicolette's words echoed in Dean's head. _Someone cut off the hand then ate the meat, and it looks like they got part of the finger bone on the ring finger too. Hope they didn't choke. _Dean suddenly dropped the offending body part as if it had burnt his hand. His stomach was churning, his mind was racing.

"I bet deer isn't the only thing you hunt," Dean whispered, standing up slowly. Marshall was the cannibal. But how? He's the one who had called them here. Why would he do that? He didn't know. But he wasn't going to stick around to find out. He had to get out of here and call his Dad.

Dean had made about half a turn to run back into the kitchen before an arm suddenly snagged around his shoulders, pulling him in close to a muscled body. Dean reacted instantly, bucking backwards and trying to flip his attacker, like it was engrained in him to do. But his body hurt and his head was pounding and his stomach was revolting. And in an expert move, which Dean recognized to be very military style, a foot slammed into the back of his knee, bringing him deeper into the hold. Dean gave a yell, but it was muffled as something was placed over his nose and mouth. It was a wet cloth and as Dean breathed in, he found his head suddenly spinning from the sweet, sticky smell permeating off of the rag. His vision swam and Dean felt his body start to slacken.

No, no he couldn't give in. He tried to fight back, but he was growing tired, so tired. His headache amplified, his aches multiplied, and Dean went completely limp, moaning his fading protests against the hand that held the cloth to his face. The arm around his shoulders lowered him to the ground as his eyes began to close. He felt a breath against his cheek and heard Marshall's voice quietly cooing him to be quiet. Dean tried to stay awake, he was dimly aware that if he fell asleep now, if he gave into this man, he could very well end up in pieces, stuffing into that freezer, ready to be eaten. Dean gave one last violent struggle, trying to break free, but Marshall held him still and Dean finally had to give into unconsciousness, sitting on the floor, in Marshall's arms, the last thing he heard was Marshall's calm yet menacing voice whisper, "It'll all be over soon."

And then it was.

Sam was becoming frantic. His knee was bouncing a mile a minute as he sat in the passenger seat of their car. He'd come to the conclusion that forty five miles per hour was a shitty speed limit on these back roads. There shouldn't even be a speed limit. Sure, his Dad was going about eighty, but still, there shouldn't be a restriction to how fast people can drive. People shouldn't be required to go so slow when their brother's were in danger of being chopped up and eaten by zombies. It just wasn't fair.

They'd left Nicolette's fifteen minutes ago. They'd spent a good twenty minutes there, and before that they'd been driving for about twenty five more minutes. That meant that Dean had been alone with Marshall and his zombie family for an hour. An hour. A whole fucking sixty minutes. And every minute seemed like an eternity. How many body parts could Marshall chop off of his brother in just one minute? How long would it take for a zombie to finish off a heaping helping of Rack of Dean? God, his brother could be maggot fodder by now. He could be sitting in the dead stomachs of June and Peter, he could be stuck in their rotting teeth, he could be…

"We'll find him in time, Sam," John's steady voice broke Sam's dark thoughts. He turned and glared at his father, ready to scream and yell at him and ask him how the hell he could be so sure, how the hell Dean could possibly be still alive after they'd left him alone for so long with such a fucking lunatic. But one look at his father's face told Sam that even though John's voice was confident and reassuring, his face was anything but. He looked pale, worried, terrified. As well he should be. His son was on the menu tonight.

"What if we don't?" Sam asked, ignoring the fact that his voice was broken and horrified.

John didn't look away from the road. He gripped the steering wheel harder and whether he meant to or not, he pressed down a bit more on the gas pedal, his eyes scanning all of his mirrors and all the terrain, praying there were no state troopers hiding somewhere, ready to pull him over. He wasn't sure if he'd stop. Hell, he probably wouldn't. Nothing could stop him now. Nothing. Not when his son was alone with that, that monster. God, how could he have trusted Marshall like that? It had been what, twenty five years? Of course the man wouldn't be the same smart alec best bud he'd been all those years ago. No one stayed the same forever, he should have known. He should have figured this out sooner. If Dean was…if that fucker had…John couldn't even bring himself to think of what he was doing to his son at this very moment. He'd never felt such fear for his boys, not since the fire that had claimed their mother.

"Then we'll make sure Marshall knows what it feels like to be eaten alive by his own fucking family," John growled. Sam wasn't surprised to hear the venom in his father's voice. John didn't let much get to him. He'd get angry over certain things, like disobedience or stupidity. He'd get frustrated with his sons and with hunts. But for the most part, John was a very calm man. He was patient and didn't let things bother him. Insults and death threats didn't phase him. He could keep a straight face in just about any situation. But when it came to one of his sons being in danger, it was like someone had let loose a fucking god of destruction. John became more than a hunter when it meant the difference between life and death for his sons. He became a killing machine. Nothing was safe when you fucked with one of John Winchester's sons.

Sam fingered the shotgun that laid across his lap. Why was this happening? How was this happening? They'd taken Dean to Marshall's so he would be safe. They'd done everything in their power to get him out of this hunt, to help him recover from the stupid flu. The flu! A normal, stupid disease. They'd handed him over to the monster they'd been hunting this whole time. Sam felt guilt like he'd never felt before. They hadn't known Marshall was behind all of this, but that didn't make him feel better. They should have known. They should have figured it out. They shouldn't have left Dean with a guy they barely knew. Sam shouldn't have told their Dad that Dean was so sick. He'd still be with them. He'd be flirting with Nicolette, he'd be cracking jokes and calming nerves and making this whole thing feel like just an everyday event. A day in the life of a Winchester. But the car felt empty. So empty. Sam felt his breath hitching. God, how could Dean possibly still be alive? They'd left him there for so long. There was no way they were going to find him alive. There was no way Sam was ever going to see his brother again. He felt tears stinging at his eyes.

"Keep it together," John's voice was quiet and Sam pressed his head against the glass of the window. He realized he'd been struggling to breathe, to keep his tears at bay. John didn't say anything more and Sam worked on calming himself down. Yeah, keep it together. It would do no good to have a panic attack now. Dean could still be alive. This was Dean they were talking about. He could jump off a twenty story building into a flaming pile of disease infested knives and still walk away unscathed. Dean was a walking miracle, how could Sam expect anything less from him now?

Because he was sick and vulnerable and weak. Because they'd left him alone with an ex-Marine. Because they'd given a maniac an hour and seven minutes alone with him. Because even the strongest, most pig headed hero of all heroes needed backup sometimes, and Dean's backup was probably an hour and six minutes too late. Why? Why was this happening? Why Dean? Why his Dean?"

"I don't know," John whispered and Sam realized he'd said it out loud. He turned his head to look at his father, eyes shining with unshed tears. "Sammy, we're going to find him."

Again, Sam wanted to scream that John didn't know that. He wanted to yell at his father and tell him that he knew John didn't think that. He could see it in his face. He could tell John thought his son was already dead. Instead, he just said, "Why would Marshall call you if he was the one doing this all?"

John took a deep breath before he shook his head. "I don't know," he repeated. "I honestly don't know, Sammy. He might have wanted to be stopped, or wanted to show off his work, or…" John trailed off and let out a soft sound.

Sam finished his father's train of thought. "Or wanted more people to feed to his family." John chewed on his lip and Sam knew that's what his father believed. "But why us? Why you? I thought you saved his life."

"I did," John said. "And he saved mine. I must have done something wrong. He has a grudge, I just don't know what the fuck I did to earn it."

"Are you going to kill him?" Sam asked the question so softly, so innocently and so tenderly that John had to glance away from him for a second to keep back the look of pain that flashed there. He knew the answer, but he didn't know if he could tell Sam. He didn't know if his son would understand. He didn't know if he could look Sam in the eye and tell him that he fully planned on putting a gun to Marshall's head and pulling the trigger without a second's hesitation. Sam was a smart kid. He was a good kid. He knew that Sam, no matter what happened, would never kill another human being on purpose. But he also knew that Sam was going to be devastated if they were too late to save his brother. Hell, they'd both be devastated. A part of John still held hope. He had to believe that his son was still alive, that right now he was waiting for his father and brother to come in and save him. But in his mind, he couldn't see how that was possible. Marshall had been a Marine. A damn good Marine. He was a trained killer, powerful and smart. And John had been stupid enough to tell him that they were close to figuring this out. Marshall would act fast. Dammit, Dean, why was this happening to you?

"Yes," John answered suddenly and glanced over at his son. Sam was watching him, but there wasn't that look of shock or disgust on his face. Only understanding. Sam wasn't going to try and stop him from committing murder. He wasn't going to pull the trigger, but he wouldn't stop him.

"Even if Dean's alive?" Sam asked, his voice quavering.

"Yes," John said again, looking back at the road. They were almost there. They were so close. Ten more minutes and they'd be bursting into Marshall's house, guns blazing, voices screaming, blood spraying. And he hoped, he hoped beyond all hope that they'd find Dean sitting in the middle of it, smart mouthing and cussing and just fucking breathing. He hoped they wouldn't find a body. The others had been reduced to parts. Nameless, unidentified parts buried in a pit and rottined. Not his son. Not Dean.

"Good," Sam whispered and turned to lean his head against the window again, knee still bouncing, breath still struggling, tears still coming. Sam closed his eyes. He'd never needed to have his brother sitting beside him more than he needed it right now. He never wanted to grab Dean's hand and listen to him bitch about the gross touchy feely atmosphere than he did right now. He never yearned to hear Dean say that everything would be okay more than he did right now.

God, Dean, I'm so sorry.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

He didn't feel right. Something was wrong, but he couldn't quite push himself out of the consuming darkness that was keeping him from the waking world to figure out what it was. Dean struggled to get his brain going again. But he could only pull himself so far out of the fogginess. And though his first thought was that someone left a goddamn window open because he was freaking cold, he slowly became aware that, along with the cold, there was also a deep, aching pain that seemed to be coursing through his entire body. With a groan, he pulled himself awake and managed to pry open his eyes. He was surprised to find it nearly pitch black. Except for a flashing red light up to his right and what looked to be a glow stick shining faintly somewhere behind him, the room was in utter darkness.

Dean let out another groan as he lifted his head and felt the muscles in his neck pull and strain. God he was sore. And it was as he was trying to reach his hands to rub his neck that he realized he was in a far more dire situation than he had woken up thinking he was in. He suddenly remembered Marshall and the "sick as shit" room as he had dubbed it. He forced himself to take stock of the situation, or more so, his body to make sure he had all his parts. His hands were restrained above his head with what felt like pretty course rope that was biting into his skin. They ached like he'd never felt them ache before, but they were attached, so he didn't want to complain. There was something over his mouth, which he guessed was duct tape by the way it was sticking to his face rather snuggly. He wiggled his toes and found that they were dangling just above the ground. He could barely graze it, which didn't allow him to take the pressure off his arms at all. He quickly did a mental check on the rest of his body and gave a sigh as he realized everything was in its place.

Except for his clothes. Now it made sense why he was so cold. He'd been stripped down to just his boxer briefs. And as horrible of a situation as he was in, Dean couldn't help but thank whatever god was looking down on him that he had put on clean underwear that morning. Sure, there was no one around to impress, but damned if he was going to be tied up half naked in dirty underwear. That was just embarrassing. When he gave a soft chuckle at his own crude humor, it quickly turned into a cough and Dean found himself fighting down the urge to vomit. No, not a good idea. Don't vomit when it has no place to go but right back down. You are not going to die because you drowned in your own vomit. Hendrix was cool and everything, but there was no way in hell he was going out like that.

As the nausea began to settle, Dean started to realize that some of his ache, and lingering fogginess, was probably due to the flu which had attacked him in such a timely manner. He could feel the sweat that beaded most of his body, only adding to the strange mixture of fever and freezing he felt over his body. What a mess. What a royal fucked up mess. Hanging half naked in some makeshift dungeon after being caught off guard by Marshall. Marshall…why did it have to be Marshall? The one guy his Dad trusted in this town and it had to be him. His Dad would never suspect. Hell, the last time he'd seen him, they still thought they could be dealing with a werewolf. How would his Dad ever figure this one out? And how would he ever get to Dean on time? Maybe he wouldn't. No, he probably wouldn't. That meant Dean was going to have to get out of this one by himself.

It would be simple really. All he had to do was pull his arms free, grab that bitch of a glow stick, and find an exit. Then he'd sneak out, run the thirty or so miles back to town, show up at the coroner's half naked, because Nicolette would love that, and try to find some civil way to ask if he could use the phone. Then he would call his Dad, borrow some scrubs, because Sammy had looked so cute in them, and they'd come back and kick Marshall's ass. Simple. Easy as pie. Now all he had to do was start at the beginning and slip his hands out of the rope. No big.

Ten minutes and two bloody wrists later, Dean had given up hope. He was exhausted. The minor flaw in his plan had been the absolute fatigue that was now wearing him down. He was sweating horribly and shivering just as bad. His wrists were raw and bleeding and the blood that was now dripping down his arms was making him itchy and there was nothing worse than an itch he couldn't scratch. And even as he tried to joke with himself about the complications of his situation, even as he tried to use his dark humor to keep himself sane, like he always did, the tears still stung at Dean's eyes as he could no longer fight off the thought of dying here without Sam or his Dad ever knowing he was in trouble. He didn't blame them. Not at all. How could he? Marshall was supposed to be the good guy. He had called them for fuck sake. He was just sorry that Sam and Dad would have to find him, probably chopped up and eaten. God how he hoped it would be Dad and not Sam who found him like that. The thought of his little brother running in here, wherever here was, and finding a carcass that had once been his brother was almost unbearable to think about. He'd never want that for his brother, never.

And Dean cursed himself as a tear slipped out of his eye at that thought. Sam would never forgive him for dying like this. Sam would probably never forgive himself either. He didn't know which one hurt worse. He could handle his brother being angry with him for all eternity if it meant that somehow Sam wouldn't blame himself for this. But Dean knew that was a dream that would never come true. Sam blamed himself for almost everything. It was a quirk of his, one of many, that Dean wished he'd outgrow.

Letting out another groan, Dean jerked in shock as someone groaned back at him. His heart sped up and panic suddenly coursed through his body unwittingly. Dean sucked in air, trying to calm himself down. He listened for the groan to come back again. He heard movement, but no words or voices. He hated to admit it, but he was shit scared. Wishing he could chew on his lip, but unable to because of the tape covering his mouth, Dean settled for chewing on the side of his cheek to try and calm himself. When the movement stopped, Dean found himself wondering who, or what, was in the room with him. It could be Marshall. Or it could be someone else in the same position he was. God, what if it were Sam or Dad or both? What if they'd come back and Marshall had jumped them too?

That thought put some bravery back into Dean's mind and he steeled himself before calling out through the tape covering his mouth. He listened as the movement came back. It sounded like feet shuffling, but they weren't coming any closer, they were pacing back and forth at the far end of the room. Someone groaned, but it was low and garbled. Okay, if they were walking, that meant they weren't being held against their will, right? So it was probably someone who was helping Marshall. But why stand there in the dark?

Guessing that there was something he was missing, Dean started working with the rope around his wrists again. He ignored the shooting pain and the dripping blood as he desperately tried to pull his arms free. His fingers were going numb, the tingling going down his arms. They'd been tied above his head for too long, they were losing circulation. Dean gave out another groan as he yanked hard on the rope, lifting himself up in the process only to feel the rope cut deeper into his skin. He let himself fall back down with a jerk, his strength waning again. He took in deep, panicked breaths. He was passing the point of shit scared. He was getting up there to "I'm playing poker with death and all I have is a pair of twos" scared.

The feet at the far wall were moving again, but this time they were faster. They were running. Running back and forth, but not coming closer. Dean could only hang there and listen, trying to stay calm, trying to ready himself for an attack. And the feet changed direction and Dean tensed but nothing ever got to him. He heard the sound of something running into what sounded like a metal gate. It was a sick sound, a body hitting something hard. He'd heard it before when his father had been fighting a demon and had been thrown out of a two story window. It was a sound he'd never forget. That sick thump as flesh moved and bunched and collided. It came again, the feet running and the sudden thump. There was a yell, one like Dean had never heard, deep, guttural, human. Liquid gurgled in the throat, air was being forced out the mouth with such force, such strength. The yell grated on Dean's ears, making him flinch and let out a small sound that was lost in the deep sound now filling the dark. What the fuck was that thing? What the fuck was going on? What the fuck was he supposed to do?

And then the yell stopped and the room was plummeted into a horrifying silence. Dean held his breath, listening for something, anything that could assure him that thing was still on its side of the room and not standing right in front of him. He was shaking so horribly that he felt his back muscles spasm with the strain. Then he heard a plop on the other side of the room and a deep groan. He closed his eyes and let out a breath. It wasn't by him. It was still over there. He wasn't going to pen his eyes and see it an inch in front of his face. But that thought didn't keep him from opening only one eye slowly and inspecting the darkness before he opened the other one. God, some strange noises and a bit of darkness and Dean was reduced to a five year old again, bumbling and crying.

The sound of a key turning inside of a lock suddenly filled the room and Dean jerked, swinging a little at the movement. It was coming from behind him. Great, now not only was there something in the dark in front of him, now there was something in the dark behind him, where he couldn't see, where he couldn't defend himself. Dean tried to turn, tried to twist his arms so he could see, but his body's strength was almost depleted. His muscles protested horribly and all Dean could do was turn his head into his arm and hope that whatever was back there wasn't here to attack him.

The door opened and Dean heard footsteps coming down a set of stairs. His breathing grew quicker as he pictured all the possibilities of who it could be. Best case scenario, it was Dad, there to fix this mess he'd gotten himself into. Worse case scenario, it was Marshall with a big meat cleaver in his hands, ready to start the butcher. Then, Dean was granted the pleasure, or so he wished, of the lights being turned on. His eyes immediately went to the back of the room, but he nearly let out a cry as he saw that it was still in darkness. The one light above him managed to keep the back of the room in shadow. He could barely make out the edge of what looked to be a cage of some sort. In the corner, he could see a camera, probably sending an image to some monitor somewhere, or maybe just recording so Marshall could get his jollies on later watching the tape. Sick, sick man.

"Sleep beauty." The voice startled Dean so much that he let out a muffled yelp and jerked harshly again, feeling the rope rub into his already raw wrists. It was Marshall. But as Marshall suddenly walked around him, Dean couldn't help but be relieved he wasn't holding a knife of any kind. He wasn't holding anything. He cringed at the thought of what weapon Marshall did have: his teeth. "You're finally awake." Marshall's voice had transformed from that nice, happy-go-lucky pitch of his to a rather menacing, melancholy drove that evil villains always seemed to have. The smile on his face was no longer warm and his eyes were no longer soft.

Marshall reached out a hand and Dean jerked his head away, but he couldn't go far and much to his disdain, Marshall laid a hand on the side of Dean's head, cupping his jaw like he would his child's. "I was worried that we'd have to do this while you were sleeping," he whispered. Psycho. Marshall was a complete psycho, and he'd better get his hand off of Dean's head right now. "I had truly hoped it would be your father here instead of you." What? Why? Didn't Dad save this dude's life? "I had it all planned out so well. It was going to be beautiful. But when your father dropped you off here, I knew I couldn't pass up an opportunity like this. You'd been handed to me, like you were chosen, and I accept you." He gave the last bit emphasis by stroking Dean's head. Dean just stared back at him with wild eyes.

Suddenly Marshall brought his hand away and smiled. "You'll be the best they ever had." They? What the hell was he talking about? Marshall reached into his pocket and Dean's eyes widened as he saw him bring out a syringe and a small vile of something. Dean felt that panic creep back into him. Marshall talked absently as he filled the syringe with whatever was in the vile. "I gave your coat to Peter. He likes the feel of leather. But I had to take off the rest of your clothes. The fabric makes it difficult for him to chew sometimes. He's missing his two front teeth, you know. I usually cut up his food for him, but we didn't have time with you." Marshall put the vile back in his pocket and Dean tried to buck away as Marshall grabbed his head and pushed it to the side. Dean felt the needle slip in. "I'm doing this as a favor to you," Marshall went on. "I didn't have the time to prepare you like I normally do. So I'm going to give you to them alive. But this will make the pain a bit less intolerable."

Marshall removed the syringe and stepped back. Dean felt the effects almost immediately. His head was suddenly swimming again. His aches seemed to fade, but were replaced with a feeling Dean wasn't sure was any better. He felt…weightless, numb, paralyzed, unable to move, though he still could if he concentrated hard enough. His thoughts were jumbling. He let out a small moan and that smile was back on Marshall's face. Dean didn't flinch this time as Marshall laid a hand on his head, stroking his hair in what would have normally been a loving gesture. He leaned in close and said, "It will still hurt, but it won't last long, I promise. June likes to go for the throat."

Dean groaned and forced his head up so he was looking in Marshall's eyes. He tried to ask Marshall what he was talking about, what was going on, why he was doing this, where he was, anything that he could figure out. But he could only manage a confused groan through the tape. Marshall seemed to understand though. He sighed. "You know, I was supposed to die." Dean stared at the man. God what was happening? "When I was in the Marines, I found myself one day laying on my back with a bullet in my chest. I was supposed to die then. But I didn't. Because your Daddy came along and saved me. I thought he was a hero. I thought he was the best friend a guy could have. He let me live. I'll never forgive him for that." The hell? "If I would have died, I never would have met June. I never would have had Peter. I never would have loved them so much. I never would have been driving that car. June would still be alive."

A light clicked on somewhere in the fogginess of Dean's brain. June was dead. No doubt Peter was too. But Marshall was talking like they were still around. Jesus, they still were. The groaning and moving at the back of the room. That was June and Peter. "That's why, when your Daddy comes back here to pick you up, to take you home, you'll already be dead. He'll know what it's like to lose a son. And then I'll put him right here and I won't give him anything to take away the pain. And I'll listen to him scream and beg for mercy, beg for life. And when he's gone, I'm going to do the same to that little brother of yours." Dean felt anger well up inside of him. Like hell he was. He had to do something. He couldn't let this dude get away with this. No way was he going to hurt his family.

Using his legs, though his mind felt detached from the whole thing, Dean swung forward and tried to kick out at the man in front of him. But the movement was weak and Marshall swatted away Dean's feet and gave a laugh. Dean tried again but to no avail. God, why wouldn't his body just work? Dammit. Marshall started to walk away. He patted Dean on the arm as he went by and Dean started swearing through the tape covering his mouth, making Marshall chuckle. He tried to yell, but his body was just too weak, too numb to do much. Marshall stood behind Dean a ways, near the exit probably. "My family died," he said boldly, dramatically. "Your family will be dead soon. But I found a way to bring mine back. I bet you're dying to meet them." And with that, the lights in the back of the room suddenly flickered on and Dean couldn't help the horrified gasp that escaped him.

The back of the room was actually one giant cage. The door looked trigger operated. Sitting in the corner were June and Peter, huddling like hamsters. It was obvious they were dead, or at least used to be dead. Their skin was partially rotted, gray, stretched in some places and bunched up in others. June's hair had all but fallen out, only a few clumps remained. Their mouths dripped with a thick, black liquid. Their eyes were foggy, dead, rotting eyeballs. Blood stained their tattered clothes and Dean recognized his coat on Peter's small body. They were both staring at him. Marshall's voice seemed like some sick narrator dubbing over a cheap horror movie. "Dinner time."

The door behind Dean closed as Marshall made his exit. Dean exercised every swear word and cuss that he knew as he struggled as best he could with the rope again, not doing much more than making himself swing back and forth. June slowly got to her feet. She gave a groan and Dean returned it, terrified. He watched as June suddenly ran at the bars of the cage and collided with them with a force that would have knocked anyone living unconscious. Dean couldn't help the cry that escaped him. Of God, Dad where are you? And Dean gave an angry scream through the tape as June ran at the bars again. Dammit, this fucking sucked.

Marshall climbed the stairs to his den and closed the door behind him, sitting down in front of the monitors he had set up there. Some of the monitors were showing feedback from the woods, where he had speakers set up to project the howling he'd played to try and throw John off. Some of them were perimeter feedback, so he could watch for people trespassing. But the one his eyes were glued to was the monitor showing the feedback of the basement. He watched as Dean's minimal struggles slowed and slowed until he was just hanging there limply, his head moving with the obviously angry, horrified curses he was flinging towards June and Peter. Marshall just laughed. "Definitely a Winchester," he whispered and then reached over to flip a switch next to him. He watched as the gate to the cage swung open and Dean's struggles started again. June was the first one out of the cage. Marshall laughed again as June was almost hesitant. She was going so slow, almost as if she were stalking, or taunting. "Draw it out, baby," he said.

Something on one of the other monitors caught his eye and he turned from Dean's peril to see what it was. His grin grew wider as he saw John and his other son come into the frame. They were ducked behind a tree in front of Marshall's house, obviously discussing their plan of action. Marshall shook his head. "What luck," he whispered and stood up. "It'll be a three course meal after all."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Sorry for the bit of a wait. Classes on the weekend, so it's harder for me to update. Also, I just wanted to tell everyone that I seriously freaked myself out writing this chapter, thinking their was a zombie behind me at all times, so I hope you all are happy. :- )


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Sam was crouched behind a tree next to his father in front of Marshall's house. They'd parked down the street and it had taken them, from the coroner's office to this exact spot, a grand total of ninety three minutes. Over an hour and a half. Sam had cycled through the panic stages, ranging from being on the verge of a full blown panic attack, to an uneasy jitteriness, and finally rounding out at a steeled determination that left Sam's entire body feeling cold. He was still scared out of his mind for his brother, but he had somehow convinced himself that there was still a possibility that Dean was still alive, and maybe even a possibility that he was still in one piece. Sam clung to that possibility with everything he had left in him and channeled it to set his mind on the task. They needed to get inside that house and they needed to get Dean the fuck out of there. If doing so required putting a bullet in Marshall's brain, then so be it. Sam would turn a blind eye to it, just this once.

"He knows we're here," John whispered and Sam snapped back to focus. He turned his head to glance at his father, who was watching the house intently, gaze fierce. John was in full blow Marine mode now. Reconnaissance. Dean was the prize. "The blinds are shut. The front door's open. He's waiting for us to walk in."

"What do we do?" Sam asked, giving John full lead of this. He would do whatever John said, no questions, just this once. As long as it meant finding Dean, Sam would do anything. Sam _would_ find Dean. Period.

"We'll go around back," John whispered, leaning to the left a bit to try and get a better view of the back porch. He had no idea where Marshall was hiding from them, he just knew that he was, and he would be ready to strike the moment they came across him.

Sam looked at the front door again. "Should we split up?"

"No," John was quick to say and finally peeled his eyes away from the house to look at his son. "No matter what, you stay right next to me, understood?" That tone left no room for argument and Sam nodded his head. John looked back at the house, scanning all the windows again. "Marshall was a goddamn god when it came to this stuff. He's ready for us. Don't expect anything less." John waited for only a moment more before he motioned for Sam to follow. "Come on," he whispered and the two of them got as close to the house as possible, ducking beneath one of the windows. They stood there for a minute, listening.

They were doing it. They were going to get Dean back, finally, dead or alive. Either way, Sam would be damned if he was going to leave his brother with Marshall and his zombie family. If he was alive, they'd get him out of there and patch him up and make sure he was okay and would always be okay. If he was dead, as hard as it was to imagine, Sam would make sure his brother didn't just become another rotting body in that damn pit. An image of a gravestone passed through Sam's mind and he had to close his eyes and shake it away. Don't think like that. Don't start thinking why type of inscription would be under Dean's name. Don't start thinking about what type of flowers you'd bring to his grave on every anniversary of his death, and birthday, and any other important days when Sam would miss his brother. Don't think those things.

His father made a small noise with his mouth and Sam looked up at him. John jerked his head to the back and motioned for Sam to follow closely. Sam took a deep breath and did just that. John peeked cautiously around the corner before going on. Sam stayed near to his father as they both climbed the stairs of the back porch, staying crouched and out of the sight of the windows. The backdoor was wide open too and John paused before it, crouching low, back flat against the house. Sam watched tensely. He was getting anxious again. A part of him was now convinced that Dean was still alive. He didn't know where it was coming from, but he was sure of it. He was ready to get in there. Ready to rush into the action. Ready for it to be over. Ready for…

He was ready for anything but what actually happened. It took him half a second to realize there was someone behind him. It took him less time than that to call out to his father, only to feel himself whirled around to meet Marshall and then to promptly feel the sharp side of a blade run across his arm. Sam let out a yelp as he was harshly pushed out of the way by his father. It was one of those slow motion moments, except this wasn't in slow motion. Sam lay stunned on the ground for a moment, taking stock of the situation. When he realized what had happened, he turned to see his father and Marshall duking it out. John had lost his gun somewhere and in turn Marshall had lost his knife. It had become a hand to hand fight.

Sam gripped his gun and just as he was about to bring it up, John landed a punch to the side of Marshall's head and the man went down. John shouted to Sam, "Go find your brother!" Sam hesitated for just a second before John added a stern, "Now, Sam!"

Hoping his Dad could handle Marshall, Sam shot off inside the house, gun up and ready to shoot should a zombie, still unbelievable they were fighting zombies, rush at him. He looked all around the living room. Nothing there. He searched all the downstairs rooms, pausing in horror in the sunroom. But even as gross as it was, the fact that the blood was too old to be Dean's made Sam all the more convinced that his brother was still alive somewhere. But he needed to find him. Now.

Rushing back into the living room, he climbed the stairs that led to the second floor. The first door to his right was a bedroom. Peter's by the looks of it. There were still toys and clothes strewn about the room. It looked normal. The bed was made, the table had been dusted. It was clean, except for the toys and clothes. John had preserved the room. Sam fought down the shivers running through him as he ran to the next room. June's sewing room. The same as Peter's bedroom, preserved just the way it had been. Sam checked the rest of the rooms, growing more concerned with every dead end.

Too much observation, Sam, not enough finding Dean. He started running back towards the stairs when his eyes spotted one last room. He could see the faint glow of a monitor inside and he ran over and shoved the door open. He was surprised to see all of the equipment there. Cameras, speakers, sound systems, monitors. And Sam froze when his eyes landed on one monitor in particular. He took a quick step forward and sucked in a breath, panic suddenly spiking through his chest.

On the monitor labeled, "Basement," was his brother, hanging from his arms. But that's not what Sam noticed first. What he noticed was the way his brother was kicking feebly, weakly, at the two walking corpses that were trying to get at him. At first, all Sam could do was stand still and watch the scene in horror, paralyzed. But when June suddenly grabbed Dean's leg and bite down on his calf, the sight of his brother's head flying back in pain and his body bucking had Sam moving faster than he'd ever thought possible.

He took the stairs three at a time, jumping down the last six and landing with a harsh thud on the ground. He ran towards the back of the house and as he turned a corner to head towards the basement door, he ran into someone with a force that would have sent him crashing to the ground were it not for the hands that wrapped themselves tightly around his arms. Sam panicked for just a second before he saw the familiar, yet now bloody, face of his father staring back at him. Sam saw John's knuckles were bloody and bruised and skinned. He could only imagine his father bashing in Marshall's face. He hadn't heard a gunshot, so he assumed that's how Marshall met his demise.

"Sam, where's…" John didn't have time to finish his sentence as Sam broke out of his grip and ran towards the basement door. Sam tried to tell John what was going on, but his words were coming out jumbled and blank as he was quickly becoming overwhelmed with the fear for his brother. God, Dean, don't let that bitch chew through your leg.

Sam grabbed hold of the basement door handle and yanked. The only thing it accomplished was nearly yanking Sam's shoulder out of the socket. He gave a frustrated yell and tried again. He would have kept trying but John came over to him and pulled him back, aiming the gun at the lock. The door opened a bit and Sam pulled it the rest of the way and, ignoring his father's protests to be careful, rushed down the stairs quickly, ready to kick some zombie ass.

The sight that greeted him was one he would not soon forget. Dean was hanging limply, his labored breathing and soft sounds of discomfort the only thing telling Sam he was still alive. Peter had come over and was now lapping at the bloody wound on Dean's leg. June had a hand on either side of Dean's face, her mouth open, ready to bite. Sam wouldn't have it. No fucking way. "Dean!" he screamed and brought the gun up. June's head tilted towards Sam and he heard the bones in her neck crack and rub against each other. Sam didn't give her another thought as he pulled the trigger. June's head sprayed blood all over Dean.

Peter had sat up and was kneeling there, looking at them innocently. Sam aimed his gun but couldn't pull the trigger. It was a little boy. Sure, a dead little boy, but still just a kid. He felt his hand start to shake as Peter stood up. He couldn't do it…but he didn't have to as John did it for him. Sam lowered the gun shakily, giving Peter's small dead body one last glance before pushing the both of them out of his mind altogether and focusing on his brother.

John reached Dean first and as he laid a hand on Dean's arm, Sam painfully watched his brother flinch and cry out. "Easy," John assured him and started untying the rope holding him to the ceiling.

Sam came around and stood in front of his brother, surprised when he found Dean's eyes open and staring at him. Sam quickly reached out and pulled the tape from Dean's mouth. His brother sucked in a breath, shaky and nervous, but Sam was just too happy to hear him breathing to really care. "It's okay, Dean," he whispered, wrapping an arm around Dean's waist, waiting for the ropes to come undone so he could catch his brother and lower him to the ground. "It's over."

Dean coughed and Sam winced as he heard just how bad Dean's lung congestion had gotten. But when Dean regained himself, he glanced at Sam and smiled. It was the most beautiful thing Sam had ever seen. "So soon?" Dean rasped. "Fun was just starting."

Sam couldn't help the half laugh half sob that escaped him. He couldn't reply though as the ropes suddenly loosened and Dean's arms fell down. His brother cried out at the motion and Sam grabbed hold of him, along with their father, and they lowered him to the ground, leaning him against the wall. John leaned forward and cupped the side of Dean's face. "How you doing, Dean?" he asked, staring into Dean's eyes.

Dean smiled again, but closed his eyes as the effort of talking seemed to drain him. "Oh, you know, almost eaten by zombies, fondled nakedly by strange men…" Dean's eyes opened at that and he gave a laugh at that. John smiled back and then started to check out the wound on Dean's leg.

Moving around so he could see his brother's face, Sam started to wipe June's blood off of Dean's skin. "I'm sorry, Dean," he said. "We should have known. We should have gotten here sooner."

"Yeah," Dean said and Sam looked up at him worriedly. God, did Dean really blame them? "Because this one was such an easy one to figure out." Sam recognized the sarcasm there and he sighed and looked at Dean with sad eyes. But his brother went on. "Besides, you're right on time. That bitch was about to eat my face."

Sam chuckled and shook his head, feeling the tears start to leave his eyes. "You always said your face was irresistible."

Dean snorted and winced as it turned into a cough. "I meant it in the Brad Pitt sort of way. Not the Big Mac extra mayo way." Dean suddenly cried out as John pressed down onto the wound on his leg. Sam reached forward and grabbed Dean before he could double over. Then he turned to glare at his father.

John looked up solemnly. "Sammy, you're gonna have to hold him down," he said quietly.

"What?" Dean asked, earning a glance from his father. "What for?"

John took the canteen from his side and unscrewed the cap. He looked up at Dean, the canteen positioned right above his leg. "This is gonna hurt, bud," he said pointedly. "But it's gonna keep you alive. Tough it out for just a few seconds, all right?"

"I guess," Dean whispered and then abruptly let out a yell as John upturned the canteen. Sam wrapped his arms around Dean's shoulders, one hand on the back of his head to keep Dean from smashing it against the wall. Dean seemed to collect himself after the first yell and settled for simple clenching his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut. Sam still held him tightly, feeling Dean's entire body shaking and shivering.

When the canteen was empty, John threw it away and patted Dean's good leg. "I just have to wrap it Dean and then we can get out of here."

Dean didn't answer. The pain was still lingering so he just leaned back against the wall, eyes still closed. Sam held one of his arms close to him, worried to let him go now that they'd found him. "Where's Marshall?" Dean finally managed to get out while John was wrapping his leg.

"I killed him," John answered stonily. Dean's eyes opened at that and Sam saw that his brother was starting to get glossy eyed from the fever. He glanced at his Dad, who seemed to have noticed as well.

Sam took off his jacket finally and wrapped it around Dean's shoulders. Dean let out a soft chuckle. "Not exactly my style," he whispered, his voice faint and fading.

"Well, I could get your jacket, but it's currently under a mound of rotting flesh named Peter McAdams," Sam told him, to which Dean scrunched up his nose and shook his head. "I'll get you a new one."

"Work the wallet, Sammy," Dean whispered. When Sam frowned, Dean grinned and nodded his chin towards their father, who glanced up and shook his head, though he had a half smile. He finished wrapping Dean's leg and stood up, coming over to Dean's side. Together, they lifted him up and when it proved that Dean wouldn't be able to walk on his own, they both wrapped one of Dean's arms around their shoulders.

The three of them got out of there as fast as they could.

The next day, Sam sat on his bed in the same motel room they'd been staying at for the past two nights. He had his text books spread out in front of him and was working on his Civics essay. Dean was laying on his bed, asleep, or somewhere near there. John sat at the table, the phone to his ear. He thanked whoever was on the other end and hung up. Then he glanced at Sam, who looked nervous.

"Well," John began. "Your teacher is giving you a three day extension," John said with a small smile. Sam gave a very large sigh of relief. He smiled back at his Dad.

"Thanks," he whispered.

"Yeah, well," John said, waving his hand, acting just like Dean when it came to the mushy stuff. Sam couldn't help but grin. "I had to call and excuse you anyway." Then John stood up and glanced at Dean. "Don't let him get out of bed," he said, pointing a finger at Sam.

"Where are you going?" Sam asked.

John shrugged on his jacket and turned to look at him. "The bar," he answered simply.

"Do you think that's a good idea. I mean with Marshall and everything…"

"They're not looking for me," John answered, looking at Sam. "The coroner, surprisingly, declared Marshall's cause of death as a single blow to the head…like he had fallen down some stairs," John quoted in an impression of Nicolette's voice. "They're pinning everything on him. They don't even know we were there."

"But they could find out…" Sam started.

"We need money to pay for the motel, Sam," John said, his voice getting irritated. Sam nodded, not wanting to make his father mad. "And," John paused and looked at Dean again. "Dean needs a new jacket." With that, he left the motel room. Sam sat quietly for a minute before letting out a long sigh. He looked down at his textbooks and was about to start writing again when a voice broke his thoughts.

"Dad knows how to cover up." Sam turned to look at Dean, who was laying on his side, facing Sam. His eyes were half open and there was a smile on his face.

Sam sighed again as emphasis and pointed a finger at him. "You should be asleep," he pointed out.

"It's hard to sleep with your loud ass sighing every five minutes," he said with a grin.

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'll be quiet, go back to sleep," he said, looking back at his books.

Dean was quiet for a moment and Sam thought that his brother had actually listened before Dean spoke up with a soft, "The flu sucks."

"Not just for you," Sam snorted. "Think about how we have it trying to live with you when you're sick," he exaggerated a groan of frustration but smiled when Dean chuckled. He was glad his brother had kept up such a good sense of humor. When they'd first gotten back to the motel, Sam had been worried about him. Dean had gotten quiet, pensive almost. When he fell asleep, he'd jerk right back awake. Eventually, Sam had to come and sit with him until he was deeply asleep. Although Sam hardly got the chance to play the protective one for his brother, he didn't deny that it didn't feel natural to do so. It wasn't that he was used to it, or knew exactly how to do it, it was just that it felt right to do so.

Dean coughed and rolled onto his back, wincing as he stretched his leg, forgetting about the wound there. He looked at the ceiling before turning back to look at Sam. "You'd miss me if I were gone," he joked. Sam just looked back at him, seriously.

"Don't make me find out," he whispered back.

Sam watched as Dean rolled back over and looked at Sam with a cocky grin. "Don't you worry your pretty little self," he said and Sam rolled his eyes. Cheese up the moment, that's what Dean Winchester was good at. "It would take a hell of a lot more than this to take down a hero such as myself."

"Uh huh," Sam said, laughing a bit. "Well, the hero always gets the girl, right? So, this is all over, why don't you call Nicolette?"

Dean looked away and Sam bit his lip. The more he had thought about it, the more he realized what Dean had been talking about earlier when he turned down Nicolette's offer of a date. Dean licked his lips and rolled onto his back again, one hand hanging off the bed, the other resting on his stomach. He stared at the ceiling with such intensity Sam thought maybe he should hurry up and change the subject. But Dean finally said something.

"When this is all over," he whispered, repeating his earlier words.

Sam just stared at his brother. He wished there was something he could say, something he could do. Dean would never call Nicolette, they both knew that. Dean would never call any girl, not until they'd found the thing that killed their Mom. That's the way it had to be. Sam understood why, but that didn't mean he had to like it. He knew they'd never give up this hunt. There were too many bad memories to avenge. The hunt would go on until something was brought to justice. Sam just wished it could be different. He wished they could just stop. Would their Mom really have wanted them to do this? To spend their whole lives going after her killer? Or would she want them to have a normal life. Actually live. Sam wished he could have known her enough to guess what she would have wanted from them. He sighed at the thought that they may never have a normal life.

"There you go with the sighing again," Dean said. Sam turned to look at him and saw the smile back on his face. He smiled back. For now, he'd have to take pleasure in the normalcy that he did know. And one of them was laying in the bed opposite him. Although he was the farthest thing from normal, Sam couldn't think of anything that seemed more normal to him than his big brother flashing that stupid grin at him whenever he started to doubt why he was here.

"Shut up," Sam chided.

"You shut up."

Yup, Dean made things seem okay. He hoped that never changed.

The End

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**Author's Notes: **So I did not know that this story was going to end here. I rewrote this chapter about six times because I was never satisfied with it. This was the end product, so I hope you enjoyed it. I was having a lot of trouble with this chapter, actually this whole story minus like one or two chapters. But I want to thank everyone who reviewed and left me kind words. :) I really appreciate them. I hope you liked this story. It was fun to write, even if it was a pain in the butt. :)


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